


Too Ruthless to Break

by mellyb6



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Family, Treason, Wounds, at the convent, speaking spanish, what could happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 12:43:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 122,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4706471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyb6/pseuds/mellyb6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Rochefort's accusations, the Musketeers must take the Queen to safety. Will they ever make it back to Paris? My take on what happened in 2x9 The Accused</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started working on this fic the week before Episode 10 was aired. I was quite discontent with the way Series 2 ended (for obvious reasons, Aramis having to leave his brothers, Marguerite being dead and nobody caring about it, Athos too late to catch up with Milady, war against Spain, etc.). My Annamis feels were crushed, especially since I didn't like the scenes they shared in Ep9. It could have been so much better. So here's what my imagination came up with. 
> 
> The story starts right when the Musketeers sneak into the Palace with Milady to rescue the Queen. In this chapter, the first lines are taken directly from the BBC script. 
> 
> English isn't my first language. Have mercy on me.

Chapter I

The Queen clutched Constance's hand, her grip far too strong to be mistaken for anything but sheer fear. Too many hardships had befallen her today, but they did not appear to stop. Her friend – or at least the person she thought was her friend – had forced himself on her, he had accused her of plotting against France, he had taken her son from her, he had proclaimed that there might be a suspicious connection between Aramis and her. It was too much to handle. 

It was distressing to be confined to her Apartments, knowing that the King did not believe her, or that he had taken Rochefort's side in public. What was happening now? There was some sort of racket in the corridor where she knew Red Guards were keeping watch. Not to keep her safe, but to make sure that she did not try to wander off. She truly felt as a prisoner, and for the first time in a long time, she was frightened by what the future would hold for her. As a Queen, she hardly had to worry about it: her days usually went by dull and uneventful. 

Someone fumbled with the knob of the door leading to her bedchamber. The Queen's breathing intensified, she glanced at Constance who had grabbed a golden candlestick and was prepared to use it to defend her Majesty against whoever might pounce to attack. 

Both women relaxed their tight stance when d'Artagnan emerged from the opened doors, followed by Athos and Aramis. The Queen heaved out a sigh at the sight of the Musketeers. There were few people she could trust now, but they would never betray her. Especially not these four. 

“We must get you away from here. To a place of safety,” Aramis stated, striding toward her. There were not bows and anything that the royal protocol entitled when soldiers were in the presence of their monarch. It was not the time, and he of all people, did not need to bother with such rigid rules. She was glad he was by her side, that nobody had come to attack her this time, but she could not agree with his request.

“I need to be with the King.” She was suffocating within these walls, inside the Palace where everybody now believed that she was a traitor sending letters to Spain with the prospect of invading her country. Even though what they thought was only a lie, leaving with the Musketeers would show everyone she might actually be what they believed her to be. She could not chance it. It was her duty as Queen of France to suffer in silence, take blow after blow for the sake of peace and stability. The King would forgive her the letter – with time. She simply had to be patient and endure the shame for the time being. 

“Rochefort is a Spanish spy. He will destroy you.”

Athos' words cut at her. Surely the Prime Minister had made a grave error in trying to kiss her, but he would not have committed such treason. They would have seen it before; the King would have noticed. The Queen shook her head, fumbling with her hands. She was uncomfortable, terrified. 

“No. My brother would not...He could not forsake me like this...”

Aramis saw her distress. He had spent so much time over the last year watching her that he almost prided himself in being able to discern any single one of her emotions. In this very moment, it was not a difficult task. Her chest heaved with each panicked breath she was taking, and her white brow was creased by worry lines. Her eyes roamed the room, unable to settle. He stepped closer, too close for it to be proper. They were all in the confidence, though, and there was no one to deceive. She was in danger, a danger far greater than what she might actually think, so he had to protect her no matter what. 

The Queen glanced at him, her eyes finally settling on his face. Everything that she enjoyed about his features was gone. No more joy, no more playfulness, no smile ready to burst and light up the room. The Musketeer was a mask of agony. 

“I beg you. The Palace is no longer safe. Rochefort knows now. The danger is too great.”

It took all her willpower to not collapse once more as she had done in the morning, after she was attacked. For a few hours, she had entertained the idea that Rochefort was simply uttering hollow threats, that he knew nothing about her and the Musketeer. It had been a foolish thought. Aramis was not lying to her, he looked too dreadful to be anything but serious. What was she going to do? The King trusted the First Minister so much that he may listen to him and unveil her painful secret. Would she die? Aramis would certainly die. What about her son? What would Rochefort do to her son? 

She shuddered in spite of herself, fighting back the tears. Then, the King's former mistress joined them, barging in as if she owned the place, and the Queen found that some things could still surprise her today. Constance voiced the question for her. This woman was helping them? Why would the Musketeers trust her? 

“I can't abandon the Dauphin.” He needed protection. Him more than her. He was innocent. 

“I'll stay with him.” Constance sounded resolute, a fact for which her Majesty was grateful, despite d'Artagnan arguing against it. She was strong-willed, which was why the two women got along so well. 

“We need to leave. They might decide to check on these guards at any moment.” Porthos' threat ended the lovers' argument for them. There was no time to lose. Aramis's hand on her back as he led her to the servant's landing felt comforting. The Queen bid goodbye to her dear friend in haste, hoping she would be fine, and asking her to protect the Dauphin as best as she could. 

Once in the corridor with the Musketeers, she tried to catch her breath and gather her emotions. It was turmoil inside her head. If it had not been for Aramis guiding her, she would have certainly stopped walking. But he was keeping her upright. It was clear that he worried about her more than about himself. 

“Where shall we go?” she asked after long minutes of silence. They were stopping every few meters, one of the three soldiers checking ahead to make sure the path was safe. Aramis never left her side, an agreement that none of the others challenged. Did they all know, she wondered? Did they all know their Queen had put one of their friends in mortal danger? Did they know they could all face prison for trying to protect her and her former lover? 

“We must leave Paris. The safest place we could think of was...there.” Aramis whispered the last word, glancing down at her. He did not need to elaborate for her to understand where they were taking her. She nodded softly. 

“Here, your Majesty.” Porthos handed her a long coat when they were almost outside the Palace. She put it on silently, her heart beating wildly against her chest. What if someone saw them? The soldiers were more than capable to protect her and fight off any opponent, yet, it would raise the alarm.

“No one. Let's go.”

Once they were safely inside the Musketeer Garrison, Queen Anne remembered she had to breathe. Smells of the Parisian streets assaulted her; she was not used to them. She was used to perfume and flowery scents. She was not used to muddy ground, hay and horses trampling the Garrison courtyard. One of the mounts in the stables looked uneasy, and she gave a start when it reared up. She grabbed Aramis' arm for support, feeling leather underneath her fingers. His arm came up effortlessly around her waist. 

“There's nothing to fear here. I've got you.”

“I know. Always.”

“If you would follow me,” Athos muttered, leading the way up the stairs until they were all inside an unused room. Tréville was already waiting for them. 

“Your Majesty. I am sorry we had to come to such means.”

“This is none of your doing, Captain. We must hope that everything will be settled rapidly.” Years of training as a Queen had taught her how to lie without blinking or without her voice rising. Years of training proved to be a failure. Her voice shook at the words, because the situation looked so hopeless to her. She wished her son could be with her. How could she have abandoned him? Constance would be with him, but if Rochefort had set his revenge on her poor baby, there was nothing the women would be able to do to prevent a tragedy. 

“Please have a seat.”

She felt watched as she sat down by the table, the five Musketeers hovering around. Her hands rested on her lap, but it took all her skills to keep them still. She was too nervous. D'Artagnan passed her a glass that she welcomed, pursing her lips once she realized it was not water but wine. 

“I apologise. Should I bring you something else?”

“Not at all. It is needed today, I suppose.”

There was a chuckle behind her, she guessed it must have been Porthos. Tréville shot him a dark look before finally explaining their plan. 

“We'll set out as soon as the horses are ready. I am afraid we'll have to travel by night.”

“It will be safer indeed. However, I do not see why we have to go so far. I am certain there are closer places for me to retreat to. I do not wish to be far away for too long...”

“I must insist, your Majesty. We do not know what Rochefort has in mind and...”

“Are you even positive he is a spy? What makes you so sure of it?”

“He attacked you! He tried to force himself on you,” Aramis almost shouted, before remembering that no matter how much the woman meant to him, he still needed to remain gallant and polite. “He is not to be trusted anymore, not that he has ever been...”

She chose to ignore the last sentence, as well as the harsh tone his voice had first taken. It merely showed how much he cared about her, much more than the dutiful respect expected from a simple soldier. What she could not ignore was the way Tréville rebuked him. 

“Remember who you are talking to!”

“It's quite all right, Captain. Rochefort has been one of my first friends when I was a girl. It is rather impossible for me to see him as a traitor.”

“We have good reasons to make such accusations, your Majesty. Yet, we lack evidence. I will stay behind and try to find proof to incriminate him. Hopefully, it will not take long and you will be able to return to Paris in a few days.”

Athos sounded confident, which put her at ease a little more. 

“In the mean time, the convent appears as a rather secure location. Athos told us how difficult it had been for the assassins to enter the last time your life was threatened. Let us pray God that we will have such luck this time as well.”

The Queen nodded, her eyes finding Aramis'. He had been staring at her ever since yelling, but there was no anger in his gaze now. She was uncomfortable with his friends around. It was wrong to want to talk to him in private, but she had so little to lose in here. 

“Do you require anything before we set out? Something to eat, perhaps?”

She dismissed Tréville's offer with a shake of her head. Mentioning food was enough to make her stomach heave. Her soul was too tortured to be able to focus on anything else but her dire situation. 

Quite suddenly, the Queen stood up from her chair to walk to the nearest window. The Palace was there, she could see some of it in the distance, and somewhere inside, her son was probably sleeping. It would be better for him if he slept throughout the entire thing. He was only an innocent baby. She could not live with herself if something happened to him because of her. It broke her heart to realize that Rochefort might be set to destroy her, but she had to protect her son. If she had to bring her former friend down in order to do so, she would act without blinking and without remorse. 

She put her arms around her waist, clutching her heavy dress. It was too fussy and glorious for such an hour. The pearls around her neck, on her shoulders and her chest tightened against her skin, trapping her inside royal protocol, and royal duties. She needed to breathe. Reaching up, she pulled out pins from her hair, sighing as the curls flew down her back. Pins rattled to the floor, nobody minding. 

D'Artagnan watched Aramis move toward her, not believing what his friend was doing. Athos only glared as was his habit with Aramis and his conflicted feelings for the monarch. Porthos glared, his arms crossed on his chest, his eyes so dark that his best friend flinched. Tréville put a hand on his arm, silently asking him to forget it. The Musketeer shook free, ignoring them all. 

“Everything will be fine. Trust us.”

“I trust you.”

When the Queen raised her head to look at him, it warmed her heart to notice the ghost of a smile on his face. His eyes were saying an entire other story, but she forced her lips to smile faintly as well, because he needed the reassurance as much as she did.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter II

 

The five riders departed from the Garrison less than an hour later. Darkness was settling in the city, even though the streets were still busy and crowded with people. The five horses galloping made such an impression that it was enough for a path to easily clear in front of them. The Queen was not used to riding. Obviously, she had received some education when she was younger, but it was not a recreation she particularly enjoyed. The fear of falling off and being trampled by the animal was added to all the other problems she had to deal with today. The four Musketeers escorting her would be more than capable to save her, yet, looking like a fool was the last thing she wanted to do.

She kept her head down as much as she could while they were within Paris. Spies were everywhere, and she did not wish to be recognized so fast. No matter how difficult it was for her to leave her son behind, she had to admit that she would somehow be a little relieved as soon as she would be far away from Rochefort. The simple thought of his name made her heart clench. It hurt physically. Queen Anne forced herself to breathe steadily, focusing on the reins in her hands and on the movements of the horse under the saddle.

Porthos and d'Artagnan were flanking her sides, and it amazed her to notice that they hardly watched where they were leading their mounts. Instead, they were constantly casting glances at her, probably to make sure that she had not suffered any fall. The metallic noises of all their weapons invaded her ears once they were outside the capital city. She was used to being surrounded by armed men carrying muskets and swords, most of the time doing so to prevent any attack on her life. This time was different. There really was danger looming above her, far greater than assassins wanting to kill her. Having to face the King and the Council if her secret happened to be unveiled and the shame that would ensue, the Queen did not believe she would be strong enough to take it.

There must have been an unspoken agreement she had not been informed of that their pace would slow after a few leagues. The change was welcome, as she could breathe a little more easily. Her hands were growing stiff from clutching the reins so tight. At least she was wearing gloves. There was a gush of wind, and her hood fell on her shoulders. The cool air on her face was a relief, locks of her hair brushing her cheeks, her earrings tapping against the sides of her face. She should have taken them off when she had the chance. Now, though, reaching up to relieve her ears of the pearls' weight sounded too frightening to be attempted.

Queen Anne lost track of time, her mind focused of following Captain Tréville in front of her. They must have ridden for hours when her head jerked up suddenly, and she realized she had closed her eyes for a few seconds. Events of the day were slowly beginning to take a hold on her. Despite her best efforts, strength was leaving her. Nobody was speaking, and the eerily silence of the countryside was closing in like prison walls. Gazing to her right to catch the attention of one of her Musketeers, she felt light-headed. The reins started to fall from her grasp, and there was nothing she could do to stop herself from sliding down the saddle.

“Porthos!” The shout broke out the peace of nature surrounding them. One strong arm caught her roughly before she could hurt herself. When her vision had cleared enough to take in her surroundings, the Musketeer was still holding her on her horse. He was so close to her, it reassured her.

“I am fine.”

“I'm afraid I must disagree, your Majesty. You need to rest.”

“Rest will have to wait until our destination, Captain. I am putting you and your men in unnecessary danger already without having to stop in the middle of nowhere.”

The Queen straightened up on the horse, the four men assessing her words. Aramis had appeared near his friends. It was too dark for her to see his face clearly, but his words conveyed his emotions for him.

“Let us at least halt to eat. You have not eaten anything in hours. You must be famished.” The Queen blushed as the proposition was followed by a growl of her stomach. It was an undignified sound, especially from someone of her rank, so she was grateful when none of her companions acted as if they had heard it.

“Some food sounds appealing, indeed. I wish to ease the ache in my legs as well.”

The feel of soft grass under her feet was comforting, along with the strong grip Porthos had on her arm. He could not chance her Majesty falling inelegantly. Her skirt shuffled with each step she took, the garment obviously out of place. It was more an hindrance than anything else. There was nowhere to seat on the edge of the forest close by. D'Artagnan took off his blue cape and spread it on the ground so she could sit on it.

She was offered some fruit and some bread. It was quite a frugal dinner, yet, she was on the run, and it was more than could be expected. It was a difficult task to process the idea that she was running away from the Parisian Palace and its intrigues. It was unlike her to do so. She thought of Constance who had stayed behind, with the Dauphin and Marguerite. She hoped everything was fine for them and that no one had realized the Queen was not in her Appartments anymore.

Nibbling on a piece of apple, Queen Anne smiled as she remembered the last time she had sat in the woods with these three Musketeers and Athos. How happy she had been in spite of the situation, to be able to help and cook dinner. How foolish of her to not have realized her cooking skills were disastrous. Aramis could not lie to her the night after, and he had confessed that burnt fish was not his favourite. This precise night what the very reason she was back on the road. Her sins were great and probably unforgivable. It was wrong of her to look back on them so fondly.

The soldier was looking at her, leaning against a tree. He should have been scanning their surroundings instead, but she looked like she could faint at any moment so it was safer to watch her. His friends despised his actions and the silent stares were all the rebukes he needed, yet, he could not gather the strength to stop. There were so few times when they could be somewhat alone; the last time had been when he had joined Emily's camp, only to have her Majesty join him. Sometimes, at night, if he closed his eyes and thought hard enough, he could feel her lingering lips against his. It was wrong, and he should try harder to avoid this feeling. He had brought this mess upon himself, upon her, and upon his friends now. Aramis would certainly die if something should befall the Queen, but he would not be able to carry on if his friends were to suffer because of him.

They were only going to the convent because of him. Of course, they were protecting the Queen from a dangerous enemy. Nevertheless, they knew his own life was at stake as well. Everything had crashed down on him so quickly after Constance told him that Rochefort knew. It seemed that it was ages ago when it had only happened in the morning. His heartbeat quickened imagining how he would be sentenced to death. There was no alternative. All his hopes rested with Athos.

“You're staring,” Porthos muttered, blocking his view of the Queen. His friend adverted his eyes to look at him.

“So I am.”

“Is your memory so quick to forget conversations that displease you? What happened to denying there was even something between the two of you?”

“There's no one to deceive here, Porthos.”

The two men glared for a long moment, the misery in Aramis' eyes too much for the other. He had wanted to sound threatening and unshaken, but the future was too uncertain for him to be confident.

“Still, keep practicing deceiving people as you have done these past months. Athos will find evidence incriminating Rochefort and we will be back in Paris in no time.”

“One of us should have stayed with him,” d'Artagnan stated, joining the conversation. “There are too many Red Guards.”

“He's not by himself. They will be fine.”

“Are you talking about Milady? You and I both know she will betray us as soon as she has the opportunity to do so.”

“Perhaps. However, so long as it serves her interest, she will protect him. She's the best assassin in Paris after all.”

“I feel so much better knowing that our lives depend on this despicable woman, thank you very much.” d'Artagnan rolled his eyes.

“Constance will be all right, d'Artagnan,” Aramis mumbled, tearing his eyes from the Queen to look at his young friend. “She has proved to be a very capable and brave woman in the past. She will handle herself just fine.”

“This man is insane. Look at what he's done to the Queen!”

“Control yourself,” Tréville hissed. “Do you wish to frighten her Majesty more than she already is?”

The Musketeer sighed heavily, throwing his hands in the air. Despite his duty, it was torture to know that the woman he loved was within reach of a man who could do whatever he desired with her if he so wished.

“Look to the horses, it will clear your head. I will go the other way to make sure the place is still safe. Make her eat as much as you can. We don't want her to lose her balance another time.” Porthos nodded to acknowledge the order. Aramis received only a blank look that told him to keep his distance or it was highly probable that unfortunate things would happen to him.

The Queen watched the Musketeers scatter around. So lost in her concern, she had hardly heard their heated conversation. Porthos knelt by her side, offering some water and another apple.

“I thank you, but I certainly could not eat more.”

“Keep it, your Majesty. The journey is long and you might need it.”

“What about you? Surely, Musketeers must eat.”

“Do not fret about us. We are more than able to travel without sustenance for some time.”

He saw kindness in her eyes when they met his. His friend had been right when he had praised her courage in the afternoon. An ordinary woman would have collapsed from this disaster by now. Yet, there she was, holding herself up like a monarch, her face strained yet dignified.

There was movement behind him as Aramis approached, ignoring their Captain's unspoken order. Porthos was about to remark on it, but his friend merely sat down against a tree, his pistol in his hand, and food in the other.

“How far are we from the convent?”

“Three hours, I would say. We know it is a long ride, but the further away, the safer.”

“Very well. Thank you.”

She held out his hand so the soldier would help her stand up. One of her strongest desires was to be rid of this dress. Perhaps the nuns would have something else for her to wear. It would not matter if it was one of their own garments. The Queen deserved nothing more to repent. Her earrings dangled once again at the sudden move, and she took them off swiftly.

“Will you put them in my bag?”

The earrings fell into Porthos' extended hand and he disappeared into the darkness.

“If it was not so cold out here, I could almost believe today was only an ugly nightmare.” Aramis raised his head at her voice. She had walked close to where he sat. He braced himself on his hands to stand up. She looked exhausted.

“It will soon be that. Only an ugly nightmare, and everything will be set right.”

“If events should take a turn for the worse, Aramis...Please, say that...”

“Nothing will make me leave your side. This is my fault. What kind of man would I be if I left you alone to deal with the aftermath?”

“A wise man respecting his Queen's wishes.”

“Then it will be the first order I'll happily disregard.”

“Aramis...” His tone was firm, so was his stance, hands on his hips, dark eyes looking straight at her. She would lie if she did not say that she had longed to have the leisure to gaze at such eyes without fearing that someone would notice how improper it was.

She stared back, hands on her hips to mirror his. It upset her that he was so willing to jeopardize his life for the sake of hers.

“It is my fault as well,” the Queen eventually conceded. “Although I am not sorry for it.”

His shoulders slumped at her words. They were words he had wanted to hear, but they came at a dire time, when everything seemed lost. Aramis was merely fighting to remain above the water and not drown in the depth of his hopeless predicament.

“Whatever happens, I will never regret what happened _that_ night.” It was important for the Queen that he realized he was not risking his life and the ones of his friends for nothing; that she was not ungrateful. Her feelings had been bottled up for too long, they had eaten at her soul during all these months when she had to see him at the Palace or when he was escorting her. See him without never really seeing him was a torture worse than watching the King strut about with his mistress.

His hand shot up quickly only to fall back by his side. It would not do. His fellow Musketeers were too crossed with him, there was no need to add oil to this fire. The Queen's statement warmed his heart a little, though. His life may be over soon, he could always rest peacefully knowing they thought alike about the few hours they had spent together.

Aramis attempted to smile, yet it lost itself somewhere and his lips displayed a miserable smirk in its stead. His shoulders were heavy with the weight of their ordeals, he worried about the Dauphin, about Athos breaking in Rochefort's office to save him. He did not deserve such brothers-in-arms.

Small fingers covered by silken gloves wrapped around his own. Queen Anne could not stand idly by and see him hurt. He looked as if he had aged ten years in the last hours.

“I will never regret _what_ happened because of that night.” Despite his best judgment, he squeezed her hand. Death terrified him, especially the type of death reserved to traitors, but he was more scared by what would befall the Dauphin. Surely, the King would not kill an innocent baby? Perhaps the King would not, but what about Rochefort?

“We are ready to start again as soon as her Majesty desires it.” Tréville's voice startled the Queen. Reluctantly, she let go of Aramis' hand, composing her face before turning around. The older man was trying to hide how angry he was at his soldier, but he was failing quite plainly. She would never thank them enough for taking care of her, but it was rather unnecessary at this precise moment. Holding her head up as it was expected of a Queen, she walked past him and toward the horses.

“I am quite ready.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some lines are taken from 2x9

Chapter III

 

The Dauphin would not stop crying, despite Marguerite's best efforts to calm him down. Her own distress must transpire and the child had to feel it. In any other circumstances, everyone would have wondered why she looked so worried when her duty as governess was such a privilege. The Palace had been shaken today so her uneasiness was easily mistaken for concern about how the situation would unravel. It did not help that the King sounded so annoyed by the baby's whimpers.

“Why will he not be quiet? Does he not love his father?”

 _Perhaps, he does,_ she thought in spite of herself. Everything that had happened lately had brought the young woman to so many epiphanies. Most of them were terrifying, and she could not understand how her life had suddenly become so untangled in intrigues and treacherous acts. Rocking the baby and pacing the wooden floor of the King's bedchambers, she bitterly recalled the look there had been on Aramis' face when he had saved them after the solar eclipse. It had been more than the look a soldier should have had in the presence of the future King, whose life he had rescued.

For a few days, she had entertained the idea that she had been too affected by the events of that day; that her mind had played tricks on her. Then Rochefort had to come to her once more, threatening to destroy her reputation and subsequently her life. Marguerite had never meant to bring any arm to anyone, let alone the Queen. The mere idea of being disgraced if her actions with the Musketeer were made public brought her chills at the time, and she had obeyed, hoping her despicable acts would be forgiven.

Her heart had broken a little when she had handed Aramis' crucifix to the Prime Minister. His cold words had brought awareness on the fact that the looks between the Queen and her soldier may not have been as innocent as they should have been. The lady longed to be the focus of such gaze; how foolish of her to fall in love with a notorious womaniser. How foolish of her to allow herself to be involved with him in the first place. If Rochefort came to the same conclusion as she did, there was no telling what he would do to the Musketeer.

Marguerite shuddered, wondering what he might want her to do to destroy her former lover. Spying and deceiving were things she despised, yet did, because they were harmless. Sentencing someone to death was something else entirely. She already knew she would not be able to do it.

It was better to concentrate on soothing the crying heir for the time being. His Majesty closed his eyes, pressing a hand to his forehead. His headache was getting worse, and the baby's cries were definitely not helping. The governess could not soothe him as the Queen would have done. Somethings could never be replaced.

“He will not settle without his mother.”

The King sighed dramatically. The young woman retreated through the open doors leading to the nursery servants had set hastily in his Majesty's Appartments.

“Here, I'll take him,” Constance offered.

She had come a few minutes earlier, stating that the Queen was asleep and that her presence was no longer needed. Marguerite was grateful for the other's woman company. They rarely talked together, but they appreciated and respected each other, which was more than enough for two people to behave in a friendly manner during such turmoil.

Constance was afraid that someone would go check on the Queen only to realize that the monarch was not in the building anymore. The doors had been locked from the inside, and servants had been told not to disturb her, yet, Rochefort could be rather pernicious. She hoped the Musketeers and the Queen left the city hours ago, and that they were far away by now. Her heart beat wildly in her chest, because she could not hide the Queen's disappearance forever. Constance could defend herself against one opponent if need be, although she doubted her skills would be sufficient to fend off a company of Red Guards.

The fussing babe was passed to her, and she busied herself with the task of keeping him quiet. What was happening was not his fault, but he had been forced apart from his mother. Moreover his father did not seem in any disposition to act lovingly toward him. But the King was not his father...The Queen had made this plain enough the previous day. Constance should have expected it. She should have expected this revelation at some point. If she was being honest, she had half-expected it ever since she had walked on her and Aramis kissing at Emily's camp. How many times she had prayed to be wrong.

Rochefort had proved to be the most evil person she had ever met. Everything about him was horrifying. He would have no remorse shattering the Queen's life, executing whoever blocked his path, and forsaking the peace in France.

“Your Majesty!” Marguerite exclaimed, her eyes strained on the monarch and the glass of wine in his hand. Constance was as puzzled as the King.

“What is it?”

Marguerite knew the Prime Minister had switched the bottle given by Docteur Lemay with one of his own. He had not even tried to hide it, doing it in front of her. She had to be his accomplice in every single one of his acts. Making it out alive appeared to be impossible for her now. If Rochefort was to be arrested, he would bring her down with him. Her chest heaved with the weight of the deadly secret. Perhaps if she voiced her suspicion, she might be granted some pardon at some point.

Unfortunately, she did not have to ponder these facts as her torturer made his presence known.

“Why is she staring? It's very annoying.”

“What is she doing here?” he asked, looking right through the governess, his icy eyes set on Constance. It was safer to look down. Holding the Dauphin close, the young woman turned her back, concentrating on her task.

“She offered to help...”

“You don't need help. Take the Dauphin away. The King needs rest.” Marguerite flinched, but obeyed, curtsying before closing the double doors. She would not have another chance to warn the King, and the wine would be drunk.

She rested her back against the closed doors, one hand covering her mouth. It felt as if she was going to be sick. She could not be accused of poisoning Louis XIII. In her heart, it was as if she had been the one pouring the “medecine” in the glass. A distressed cry escaped her lips, her companion turning toward her.

“Everything will be fine, Marguerite. Rochefort cannot keep the King and the Queen apart forever.”

“Obviously. I dread what will happen next more.”

“I was in the room when the Queen wrote the letter to the Spanish King. It was Rochefort's idea from the very beginning. He will not achieve whatever it is he seeks. I will not let him.”

Marguerite had almost forgotten why the Queen had been confined to her Appartments in the first place. Her mind was too busy worrying about herself, the Dauphin, and Aramis.

“His Majesty will forgive the letter, he has said so. He only wants the Queen to realize she should not have done it without his assent.”

Constance bit the inside of her cheek. If only the King would see how vile his Prime Minister was. Instead, he almost worshiped him like a god and it sickened the young woman.

“You should go, Constance. Be with the Queen. Rochefort will be upset if he finds you in here when he comes back.”

Marguerite wished to be alone with her thoughts. She was too ashamed of her actions and she did not trust that she would not betray her secrets if the other woman stayed with her. Her eyes were frantic, unable to settle on anything. She felt faint. Had the King drunk already? What was Rochefort's plan? Why would he want to kill him? Who would he blame for it? Would he accuse the Queen? Marguerite had to sit down, her vision blurry.

“You should not be afraid of him,” Constance said softly, thinking that her companion's shaking voice and troubled face were a result of speaking about Rochefort and how ferocious he could be. “He will not hurt you. Not when you have to take care of the Dauphin. How would he justify such violence?”

“He would certainly not hesitate to hurt _you_. It annoys him greatly when people disobey.”

Constance had to admit that the governess could be correct. Not that she was scared of Rochefort, she could fight him off. It worried her that if she did, he would twist the situation around so that she would be the one accused of having lost her mind and of attacking him. She failed to see how being thrown in a damp prison cell would help the Queen. Reluctantly, she handed the Dauphin to the other woman. The baby was still crying. He was beyond tired, and they both knew he would soon pass out from exhaustion. At least, he did not have to worry about his parents.

“I will come back in a couple of hours. Keep you company or watch over him so you may rest as well.”

“Thank you, Constance.”

Marguerite was ashamed of the warm smile she received. She did not deserve it, and neither did she deserve the way Constance squeezed her hand after the heir was settled against her chest. Marguerite deserved nothing of the sort. She was a traitor, she disgusted herself. Constance would hate her, too, if she knew what she had done to the Queen, and to Aramis, how she was unwillingly helping Rochefort.

Unable to comfort the Dauphin when there was so much self-hatred and anxiety radiating from her body, the governess lay the child in his crib, gently as soon as she was alone in the room. Rocking the crib and singing a lullaby were helping her settle her mind. It did not help the Dauphin. It did not help either when the doors suddenly open on the King.

He looked seriously ill, clutching his robe and leaning against the wall. Marguerite realized what was happening, but all she could do was stare at the monarch with terror. She hardly heard “Help” when he said it. She looked in horror as he tumbled on the wooden floor, the baby's cries covering his groans of pain. White foam covered his mouth, his body was twitching.

“Help!” she finally screamed. It was all she could manage to do. What Rochefort had put in the switched bottle had to be poison, she was positive of it. Why would he want to poison the King? This went further than wanting to disgrace the Queen. Marguerite had tangled herself in a mess bigger than she could have imagined, and she did not want the King of France to die because of her. “Help! Help!”

She kept on yelling, the Dauphin joining her, until Red Guards burst through the doors, stopping short when they realized what was happening. Then, everything was a blur. Servants were summoned, but Marguerite was too shocked to be of any assistance. Her heart stopped for a second as Rochefort entered the room, dropping to his knees to help the King.

Marguerite was going to be sick. How could he act like a loyal subject when he was the reason why his Majesty was suffering and thrashing on the floor? Was the King going to die? What would happen if it was the case? The Queen was in disgrace for the time being, the heir was only a few months old. Should she go and inform her Majesty of what was happening? She certainly would want to know that her husband had been poisoned. The governess took a few steps back from the commotion, but she did not make it very far before Rochefort's next words made her freeze.

“Find Docteur Lemay and arrest him. I will discover who is responsible for this, sire. I swear it,” he ordered his Captain after he had smelled the “medecine” in the small bottle. He glanced up at her, and she knew he would soon require her help. She did not want to accuse anybody who was innocent. The Docteur was a good man, he had always been helpful, and very kind to her. Would he have to take the blame? The governess understood perfectly what was the sentence for trying to poison and assassinate the King.

One hand covering her mouth, she retreated near the Dauphin, the only person who would not look at her with fury. She tried to shush him, covering his small ears to block out the shouts and the groans next door.

“Don't let him die, please God, don't let him die. Everything will be fine, everything will be fine,” Marguerite chanted, holding the child so close to her chest, the top of her dress was soon soaked with tears.

It was the middle of the night, but Marguerite could not imagine how she would manage to rest tonight. Nobody seemed to want to sleep. It was another hour before the Dauphin eventually fell asleep, his head on her arm. She did not want to let him go. There was no one else she could protect, and she had no intention of failing this time. Instead, she distracted herself by praying softly, asking forgiveness for everything she had done. It was doubtful God would grant it to her, but she at least had to try.

“Why are you praying? You have nothing to be frightened of. Unless you want forgiveness for your lies of course.”

The icy voice made her shiver on the spot. Her eyes were closed and as she opened them, there was Rochefort looking at her with murderous eyes. She brought the Dauphin closer. Carefully, she stood up, ready to beg, and dreading what he was going to ask her to do this time. Her voice was a mere whisper, the words burning in her throat. She hated him with such passion.

“Please, release me from this agony. I cannot...I will not lie for you anymore. The King might die.”

“If I'd intended to kill him, he'd be dead,” Rochefort hissed. This lady annoyed him, he was not certain he could rely on her, even though so far, she had been quite useful. He only hoped she would not make a stupid mistake or he would have to dispose of her before her job was done. But no, he chastised himself. He needed her to testify against the Queen and the Musketeer. It was the only reason why he did not tear the Dauphin from her arms to slap her. Violence would lead to nothing good for the time being.

“It was just enough to weaken him. To remind him who his friends are. And this where I must request your help, my darling.”

“Please...”

“It is too late to walk away now. It would be rather unpleasant for your father to learn that his daughter has been accused of plotting against her King, would it not? I thought so,” he added, satisfied by the despair plainly visible on the governess' face. “My Guards have already arrested Docteur Lemay and he will be brought toward the King whenever his Majesty has recovered from this dreadful assassination attempt. You will explain that him and Madame Bonacieux were both plotting against the King.”

“But Constance...Constance is innocent!”

“Would you prefer to be the one thrown in jail instead? It would be of no use as she would soon join you afterwards. And I would have to leave the Dauphin in the care of unfamiliar nurses.”

Marguerite swallowed with difficulty, her mouth had dried out, her face had turned whiter than usual. It was a superhuman effort for her to simply nod her agreement. She desired nothing more than to be rid of his presence. His eyes were assessing whether she could be trusted. Rochefort seemed satisfied with his inspection since he left as swiftly as he had arrived. He had her trapped, and he could not have dreamt of a better partner to perform his plan. Nobody would suspect the gentle governess.

The young woman sat back down loudly, having forgotten how to behave like a lady. This was too much. She could not betray Constance like that. Marguerite knew she had already betrayed the Queen, but the monarch was safely inside her chambers, even though it sounded like she was a prisoner. Yet, Constance was not of royal rank, she was not even from an aristocratic background. She would be in a small and insalubrious cell below the ground. She would die for a crime she had not fomented. How unfair was it? How could Marguerite live with herself if she sent the woman to her death? She could not. She would not.

Her train of thought was scary because she had no idea where it would lead her. However, she was too far gone anyway to hope to make it out with an untarnished soul.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter IV

 

Marguerite was pacing the room anxiously, hands pressed to her stomach to stop the uneasiness that had settled inside her. She could not stop wondering how she was going to find a way to Constance without being seen. The Queen's Apartments were heavily guarded. Of course, she could have used the servant's landing, but it meant leaving the Dauphin on his own. She could not do it. The Queen trusted her to care for her son while she was forbidden from seeing him. His governess would not let him out of her sight.

The King must have finally fallen asleep next door, this time with guards at his bedside. The Dauphin was sleeping as well, everything was quiet, so she was startled when one of the doors usually used by servants creaked open. Marguerite breathed out a relieved sigh as Constance peered inside the room, making sure that it was safe.

“Is it true? The servants are saying that the King has been poisoned.”

The governess nodded to confirm. Constance's face registered the information with shock. A hand flew to her mouth, but it was not enough to prevent her from gasping in horror.

“Is he....He's not....”

“His Majesty is resting for now. His life might not be in danger anymore. A physician has been summoned. Docteur Lemay has been arrested.”

Constance gasped more at the new revelation. What was happening inside the Palace these days? This was more than a plot to disgrace the Queen. It was an entire conspiracy to destroy the French monarchs and surely the government as well. The young woman watched as Marguerite made her way to her side, grabbing both of her hands in hers, squeezing so hard.

“Rochefort will accuse Lemay.”

“Why? What has he ever done to him? He's innocent!”

“I know, but we both know Rochefort will succeed. You must leave, Constance. Leave the Palace at once.”

“What? Why?”

“He will accuse you of being an accomplice as well.”

Although she should have been scared by the warning, Constance merely scoffed, laughing it off. Her companion could not be serious, yet her face was a mask of misery, her teeth biting her lips restlessly.

“No, he will not. He has no proof.”

“Rochefort does not need proof. He will throw you in prison. You must run. Run as far away as possible while you still can.”

“You're not lying, are you?” Constance eventually stated, and as Marguerite shook her head sadly, she realized that she was in a very dire situation. She caught the side of a table to remain upright. The other woman was right, the Prime Minister would not need proof to imprison her. He would need proof afterwards, if she was to face trial. But would she even face trial when the King's life had been threatened? Would she be tried for a crime she had not committed? What was Rochefort's plan? Why was he doing this to her? To Docteur Lemay?

“I wish I was.”

“How do you know what Rochefort intends to do?”

“It is not important.”

“Well, I am to be accused of a crime for which I am completely innocent. I think I deserve some explanation.”

“Now is not the moment. You are wasting time, Contance!”

Marguerite made to push her out of the room, but the other woman was having none of it.

“Did he tell you what he had planned?”

“I heard him talk to a guard earlier.” The lie came easily, even though she chastised herself for saying it. She was tired of lying to cover her actions. This particular lie was more to protect her than Rochefort, though, so it was less painful to utter. Marguerite did not wish Constance to know how she had betrayed the Queen by helping the Prime Minister, not if she could avoid it.

“I cannot leave you alone with him.”

“You can, and you will. Please, Constance, won't you save yourself?”

She wanted too, she was terrified of what would happen if Red Guards caught her. But the Queen was relying on her to hide her disappearance. She could not entrust anyone on their secret. Could she trust Marguerite? Could she tell her that no one had to enter the Queen's Apartments? How long would they be able to keep everyone away? The governess would be blamed. Constance would not risk it, not when the Dauphin needed her.

“Thank you, Marguerite.” The two women hugged briefly, Marguerite's heart sinking. She had just signed her death warrant. As soon as guards would realize that Contance was missing from the grounds, Rochefort would understand that she had been warned. He was too clever to believe otherwise. Since she was the only one informed of his plan, the governess would suffer his wrath. At least she would have saved one innocent person. What better way to atone for her sins?

“Wait! Take my coat,” she added quickly. She would soon not need it anymore. “They'll arrest you on the spot if they see you. You may have a better chance if you wear some of my clothing.”

Glancing one last time at the sleeping baby, Constance walked back to the servant's corridor. It was a tiny space, barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side, and so dark. She had not taken two steps that she collided with another person. Her pace had been brisk so it hurt. Two strong hands grabbed her arms roughly, and she knew they would leave bruises.

“Would you look at what I've found, Marguerite,” Rochefort cold voice said, thrusting Constance back into the room. “There seems to be a rat in the King's apartments. How lucky are we that I was expecting any potential escape route.”

All of a sudden, she was slapped, ornate rings pounding her cheeks, her head ringing from the pain. She fell flat on the bed behind her. Her lips were bloodied, and when she opened her eyes again, Rochefort's face was so close to her, she saw death in his eyes. Constance recoiled, attempting to protect herself, but he was much stronger than she was.

“Please, stop!” Marguerite pleaded, clutching Rochefort's arm, only to be pushed out of the way. Her intrusion seemed to have interrupted his actions, and he turned around to face her.

“What was she doing here in the first place? I thought I made it clear that she was not welcome. Where were you going?” He hissed, sitting Constance upright on the bed. She was in so much pain she slumped to the side when he released her. He slapped her once more, one of his rings making a red mark just beside her right eye.

Then, he set his eyes on Marguerite who saw the fury and stepped into a corner of the room, her whole body shaking. Once he had her trapped, he raised a hand, rejoicing in how the woman's eyes closed in dread of what would follow. Instead, he simply tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Marguerite was whimpering.

“Surely, you would not jeopardize my plan, darling?” Her whimpers intensified when his fingers trailed the side of her face, around her chin, before settling on her neck. He pressed softly, his nails digging into her skin. “I'll deal with you later,” he decided, releasing his grip. His threat terrified her, but the blow to her face came as a surprise. Her head reeled back against the painting behind her. Marguerite saw stars, her eyes shutting down. “Now! Madame Bonacieux! It is unfortunate that you have forsaken the side of our adulterous Queen to come and try to steal the Dauphin away from his father.”

“What? I...I never...” Constance's words lost themselves in her throat. She could taste salt on her injured lips, and she knew she was crying in spite of herself. He manhandled her once again, lifting her up so she would stand in front of me.

“It was only sheer luck that I happened to pass by to make sure he was sleeping peacefully. What would you have done with him after assaulting his poor governess?”

Constance could not believe what he was telling her. He was describing perfectly the tale he would report to his Majesty and whoever might wonder why she had been so beaten. He was not finished and despite her best efforts to block out his voice, he was spitting the words in her ears. The first tears had dropped from pain, the ones rolling down her cheeks now were from fright and despair.

“You were fighting so bitterly that I had to knock you out unconscious in order to restrain you...” Constance closed her eyes, waiting for the blow she was certain to receive in the incoming seconds. Then there was a loud noise, a great yell of pain, and when she opened her eyes again, the man was lying on the ground, a crimson gash in his fair hair. He was the one who had fallen unconscious.

“Marguerite...”

“He's a villain and I am no longer going to stand by and let him ruin us.” With a trembling hand, she set the golden candlestick on the table. Her makeshift weapon was heavy, and she felt the muscles in her arm strain under her skin. She was sweating profusely, the cold drops running down her brow. Her victim lay at her feet, blood dampening his hair. Was he dead? Had she killed him? It even surprised her that her blow had been powerful enough to make such damage.

The Dauphin had woken at the noises, and he was beginning to cry again. Constance reached her companion's side, hugging her once more. They were both trembling, too shocked by what had just taken place to express their feelings. She was so grateful that Marguerite had acted out. She might just have saved her life.

“You cannot stay here, Marguerite. You will be dead the minute he wakes up.” They both glanced at Rochefort, watching out for any sign that he would recover too quickly.

“I could not possibly leave the Dauphin. The Queen would never forgive me.”

“We'll have to take him with us, then.” Constance made the decision in a split second. Abandoning the Dauphin to the King was not an option. If Rochefort woke up and discovered that the women had fled, nobody would be around to stop him from accusing the Queen furthermore. What would stop him from informing the King of his suspicions about her infidelity? With none of her supporters at the Louvres, and with his Majesty trusting the Prime Minister so much, the accusation would most certainly be believed. The child could not be left with these two men, not when he might suffer from retaliation intended at his mother. He had to be protected at all costs.

“It would be treason.”

“No more than what we've already done.”

“The Queen will be distressed when she realizes her son is gone in the morning.”

“The Queen is not in the Palace anymore.” Constance decided that what they had shared in the last minutes was sufficient to trust the governess. Marguerite looked at her in disbelief, all the while rocking the heir so his cries would not draw the attention of more people.

“Where is she?”

“She left with the Musketeers in the afternoon. The place is not safe for her, not with Rochefort shouting accusations at the top of his lungs.”

Both women stared at each other, understanding of what they were about to do slowly sinking in. Marguerite knew it was the only solution to save herself, although she did not think she deserved it. Besides, how long would she survive on the run? Where would they go? No place in Paris would be safe for the abductors of the heir to the throne of France.

In her heart, Constance shared the governess' terror. She clearly remembered what had almost befallen her the last time she had dared take the baby out in Paris. Even though her only intention was to cure his fever, she had been so close to face the gallows. If they were caught this time, her head would fall before she could see the inside of a prison cell.

Marguerite swallowed thickly, struggling to breathe correctly. Looking around the room, she assessed what she could take with her that might be needed by the Dauphin. There was so little time. In the end, she resolved to put him in his carry cot, adding a second blanket as it was cold in the streets. They did not know when they would be able to warm themselves again. As soon as the baby was laid down, her hands resumed their shaking, and she balled them into fists. The left side of her face hurt. She looked up to Constance, wincing at the damage Rochefort had done on her.

“Wait a minute,” Constance said when they were ready to leave. They had not talked since her revelation about her Majesty's whereabouts. Everything was overwhelming for the other woman. Her world had just collapsed even more, she had hit a person for the first time in her life, and although it was only to protect her friend, she would have to ask forgiveness for it. There were too many things Marguerite had to ask forgiveness for, it made her head spin.

Kneeling by Rochefort's side, Constance gently grabbed his hand to take off the ring marking him as the Prime Minister of France. She pocketed it. Her escape plan was foolish, but if they managed to make it out of the Palace unarmed, half of the complications would be behind them. Marguerite was looking at her, brow creased, questions in her eyes.

“Nobody will question us if we show them _this_ ,” she explained. She flinched when she checked her face in a mirror. Her injuries were too visible. They were not overly painful because excitement and terror were enough to numb the feeling. It would be another matter entirely in the morning, if they ever survived until then. Constance put the hood of her coat over her head, concealing the cuts as best as she could. On second thoughts, she knelt again, stealing the small dagger hanging from Rochefort's belt. It was small, yet it was better than nothing.

Clutching the Dauphin's cot with both hands, the governess followed her companion down the servant's corridor, not sparing a glance to rooms in which she would probably never walk again. The child had settled, and they were walking so slowly, afraid that someone might notice them too early. Constance wished for d'Artagnan to be by her side to help. Her small weapon would never save the two fugitives.

“Where do you intend for us to go?” Marguerite inquired after the silence surrounding them had become unbearable.

“We must find help. We need Musketeers.”

“Didn't you say they left with the Queen?”

“Not all of them. I simply hope we will not arrive too late.”

She had been hastily informed of what their plan to condemn Rochefort was. There was still a chance that Athos had not left Paris. Constance shuddered at the thought that she might not be able to find him. She had no other idea of where to take the Dauphin to safety.

To Marguerite, time seemed to stretch forever until they came to a stop. Her footsteps sounded painfully loud in the night. The baby had stopped fussing, a fact for which she was grateful.

“Two Guards at the door. There must be two by the gates as well.” Constance concealed the dagger underneath her coat. Reaching out, she grabbed Marguerite's hand to have her attention. “Here is what you will tell them....” The governess nodded. In her turmoil, it was a relief that the other woman was making decisions and leading her.

The two Guards straightened up and blocked their path with their spears. Marguerite forced her face to remain neutral, her eyes determined.

“Count de Rochefort has ordered us to take the heir to safety. He fears an attempt on his life as well.”

“Where are you going?” One of the men looked at them suspiciously. Contance concentrated on making her breathing even, her right hand closing on the dagger.

“We are to tell no one. This will vouch for our intentions.”

It was a victory in itself to see how the Guards bowed at the sight of Rochefort's ring. No more questions were asked, neither by them or by those who opened the gates leading out of the Palace. Marguerite would have made a dash for it, but Constance whispered hastily for her not to do so. They indeed had to put as much distance as possible between them and their assailant, they could not act foolishly.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter V

 

Constance had no idea of what time it was. Darkness filled the empty streets of Paris. Her footsteps resonated on the cobblestones, her hood had fallen down when they had started walking at a brisker pace. Once they had rounded the corner and were not visible by Red Guards, there had been no need to pretend anymore. If he was still alive -and the woman knew he was, he was too tough – Rochefort would soon wake up. Nobody would be safe from his wrath then.

Marguerite followed close by, her Court dress making it difficult for her to walk properly in the uneven streets. She was a traitor, a fugitive, and perhaps even a killer. There would be no seat for her in Heaven. For a split second, she cursed her feelings for Aramis. She would not be in such a position if she had not been so infatuated with him. As a matter of fact, she might not even have had her charge as Governess if he had not been involved in the first place. A glance at the child, buried deep under blankets to be kept warm, reassured her that he seemed fine. The poor soul could not understand what was happening around him, and the danger he was still in.

“Will the Queen approve of our actions?”

“We promised to look after her son. As we can no longer do so in the Palace, she will certainly not blame us for removing him.”

“But if Rochefort recovers, he will use it as proof against the Queen. He will find out that she has disappeared, too.”

“As soon as they have found evidence, the Musketeers will have the Count arrested. It will not be difficult to convince his Majesty we were only concerned with the heir's safety. He'll understand.”

“What evidence?”

Constance stopped walking to face her companion. Given how close their dire predicament had brought them, there certainly was no harm in letting Marguerite know who the man really was.

“We believe Rochefort is a Spanish spy, and that he's been plotting to overthrow the King or even start a war.”

One of Marguerite's hands flew to cover her mouth, her eyes widening in horror. Her torturer's actions let little doubt about his intentions, but she would have never believed it would so big, so important, such a great betrayal. She was the accomplice of a Spanish spy. She had helped a Spanish spy. Nothing she would do would be sufficient to atone for these sins if a war was to break out between the two countries.

“We should not stand idle. Come on.”

Marguerite followed dutifully, it was the only thing she was capable of. It astonished her that she had not collapsed under the weight of her troubles yet. Suddenly, Constance put one arm out to make her stop. The governess had never come to this part of town.

“We've arrived. Wait for me here.”

She watched as her companion approached the Garrison's gates and the Musketeer keeping watch by the side. Constance put her hood back on to conceal as many injuries as she could, and tried to make her voice as lively as possible. She hoped her lie would be convincing enough.

“Good evening, Pierre.”

“Constance.”

“I have a message from the King for Captain Tréville. I know the hour is late, but might I see him?”

“He left on a mission earlier tonight. I don't know when he'll be back.”

“Oh. Athos, maybe then?”

“You've no luck. He left minutes ago, as well.”

Constance's heart sank. The words sounded like a death sentence. Without proper help or horses, they may make it out of Paris, but they would never make it far enough to be safe. They would never truly be safe until Rochefort was behind iron bars, yet she was hoping they could find somewhere to hide, somewhere far away. She thanked the Musketeer nonetheless, retreating to the dark corner where she had left Marguerite.

“Perhaps, _you_ can explain what it is you two are actually doing. This one seems to think I will slit her throat if she opens her mouth.”

Constance froze on the spot at the words. She brought her dagger out, stepping closer to where the governess was. How Milady had found them, she had no idea, but she did not trust the woman at all, despite what she had done for the Queen earlier in the day. Constance would never forget she had almost killed her the previous year, or that she had rendered her Majesty miserable by bedding the King.

“It is none of your concern. Let us go.”

“I am not holding any hostage. In case you haven't noticed, none of my weapons are drawn...yet.”

“If you tell anyone that you have seen us, I swear I'll....”

“What will you do? Kill me? With _that_?” Milady let out a sharp laugh. The mere idea sounded entertaining to her, and Constance hated her more for it. With a swift movement of her hand, the young woman was disarmed, the dagger now in Milady's grip.

“I'm curious, ladies. Isn't it a bit too chilly and awfully late to take a stroll with the Dauphin? I wonder if Rochefort is behind this. Is he?”

“Will you run to report to him if I answer?” This time, she looked at Constance with such contempt that she actually seemed hurt at the accusation.

“After everything he has done to me, I fail to see how associating myself with him would be profitable.”

“Very well. Then let us be and resume whatever despicable mission you were on.”

Marguerite had watched the exchange between the two women with disbelief. She had only known Milady de Winter as the King's favourite, but there seemed to be some kind of history between her and Constance. It had always amazed her how the latter could be defiant in her actions, how she was not afraid to speak her mind despite what everybody else might think. She respected her for the way she had stood up to the woman who had scared her so much by appearing out of nowhere. Marguerite would never equal Constance in her bravery and fierceness.

“Where will you go?” Milady asked behind them.

“Leave us alone.”

“They're all gone, your Musketeers. It's a pity you missed Athos, he only left a short time before you arrived.”

“I know,” Constance conceded bitterly. Marguerite gave a start at this new piece of information. Didn't her friend count on the soldiers to help them out of the capital city?

“Then, please enlighten me on your other option, Madame Bonacieux. Because you have another option, don't you?”

If Milady would stop chattering, perhaps she would be able to concentrate and come up with another solution. Yet, her mind was blank. They could not go to her former house as it would be one of the first places Rochefort would search. Constance had few friends, and none whose life she wished to endanger. Her shoulders slumped. Marguerite looked at her desperately.

“Constance?”

“I know where they've gone.”

“I did not ask for your help.”

Milady stepped closer, her face glowing in the part of the street the oil lamp on the Garrison wall illuminated. She inspected Constance's face, taking in the cuts, the bruises, and the bloodied lips. The governess did not look as bad, but she was not pretty to gaze at either.

“I'm not asking your permission. Rochefort has already started his work on you both and you will suffer far more when he finds you. I know where they've taken the Queen. If you are a minimum sensible, you will come with me.”

“Why would you help us? What tells me that you will not betray us the very second you have the chance to do so?”

“How do you think they gathered so much information about Rochefort being a spy?”

“You told them.” It was not a question. Constance could not understand what game Milady was playing. It was all too confusing.

“Indeed. What would I gain now if I changed sides? I have no desire to die.” She absentmindedly brought one hand up to her neck. She could still feel the shadow of the rope Catherine had used a few hours before.

“Please, Constance. If she can help...,” Marguerite pleaded.

“I don't trust her, Marguerite.”

“Neither do they,” Milady stated as if having people's trust did not matter to her at all. “Sometimes you have to take chances. Now what will it be? Standing idle for Red Guards to pounce upon us, or escape while darkness is still an ally?”

Despite what she knew best, Constance understood that her options were scarce. Reluctantly, she nodded in agreement. She would let Milady lead them to the Musketeers and the Queen, but not before reclaiming her weapon.

“Always the suspicious one, Constance. I can see why you and d'Artagnan make a good couple.”

The woman glared at Milady's jest. Her eyes hurt. Marguerite heaved a sigh of relief but it was short-lived. Even though they had a destination to reach, they still had no traveling means to cover the distance, how ever long it was.

“Are we to walk?”

“Of course not,” Milady snapped at the governess. It annoyed her that she had to come as well. If it had only been Constance, it would have taken them less time to reach the convent. She was a decent rider, and was not afraid to put herself in perilous situations. Marguerite, on the other hand....Milady did not know what to think of her. She appeared frail and frightened out of her mind. Could she even sit on a horse properly?

“I have found a horse for myself and if I remember correctly there were others.”

“Did you find it or did you steal it?”

“You are running away with the Dauphin and you worry about some petty theft?” The older woman rolled her eyes at Constance's accusing tone.

The two women waited in an adjacent street while Milady was retrieving her own horse. A few minutes later, she re-appeared with another one. Marguerite was casting glances around, afraid that someone might notice what they were doing and would raise the alarm. Her sole concern was to keep the Dauphin safe, so she was letting the privilege of criticizing Milady's actions to Constance. Her only wish was to escape Rochefort, to be so far away from him that she could forget what she had done for him. It was a foolish hope because as soon as he would be arrested, he would waste no time incriminating her. Perhaps if she helped as best as she could the Queen and the Musketeers, she could be pardoned.

“In case you haven't noticed there are three of us,” Constance pointed out sarcastically. Her stomach was in knots, her heart would not stop pounding. It went against her instincts to put their lives and the one of the Dauphin in Milady's hands. The only fact reassuring her only a little was that d'Artagnan and his friends had had to do the same. They would not have told her where the Queen was if she did not play an important part in their greater plan.

“Can you ride?” Marguerite looked up at the question, shivering.

“I can handle myself on a horse, yes. But with him, I am not sure...”

“That's what I thought. You too will ride on the same horse. I'll take the Dauphin.”

“Over my dead body!” Constance shrilled. Marguerite took a step back, setting the carry cot on the ground so she could cradle the heir in her arms. It was obvious that the woman did not trust the former royal mistress. It was enough for the governess to share the same feeling. She would not let anyone else hold the child. Milady rolled her eyes once again.

“You are so difficult! Can you ride behind her and hold a baby at the same time?” she inquired, Marguerite nodding, even if the prospect did not sound appealing at all.

“I'll manage.”

“Very well. Suit yourself. But do not expect me to pick any of you up if you fall down.”

It took some time for the two women to settle on their mount. The Dauphin would not stop moving about. He was tired, angry, and most certainly hungry. Milady waited by the side, her horse neighing impatiently, displaying the feeling she had to keep inside. These amateurs were going to doom them all.

Marguerite cradled the baby with one arm. A blanket had been hastily wrapped over her shoulder so the Dauphin would be safely tucked to her side at all times. She closed her eyes once Constance had coaxed the horse into moving behind Milady. They were going fast, and she was not used to riding like a man. She did not look behind when they left the empty streets, the city, the Palace, and their old life.  


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the lines are taken from 2x9

Chapter VI

 

The sun was rising when the Queen caught a glimpse of the convent. Their destination was finally within reach. They had ridden all night long, and she was sitting on her mount by a miracle. Although she was still alarmed and could not stop thinking about the son she had abandoned in Paris, she desperately needed to dismount, warm herself up and rest.

The sounds of horses on the cobbled path leading to the entrance attracted the attention of the nuns who rushed out to tend to the horses. D'Artagnan helped her down, his sweet smile always a comfort to her. The other Musketeers were busy scanning their surroundings. She doubted anyone would know they had taken refuge in such a secluded area, but she was thankful for their unwavering dedication.

“We are honoured to receive her Majesty,” a nun greeted her by the gate, curtsying. Queen Anne found the strength to smile back, despite her exhaustion. There were so many subjects loyal to her in France, people she could always rely one. It was a relief.

“I'm in need of your help now more than ever, sister Teresa.”

“God never turns away those in need of sanctuary. You are all welcome.”

“Thank you, sister. I believe her Majesty will want to rest. The journey was very tiresome.” The nun bowed at Tréville's suggestion, motioning for the small company to follow her.

The Queen had difficulties not looking at Aramis who was walking a step behind her. They had shared such private and unforgettable moments the last time they had found themselves within these walls. She could have easily forgotten how frightened she had been that assassins were after her since she had had the best protectors a monarch could dream of.

It was the events of the night she held on to. They had been enough to power her through the days ever since, despite putting her in such a predicament. Sometimes as she was waiting for sleep to take her, in a cold bed in the Parisian Palace, she would wish that she was not Queen and that she could go back to being the simple woman the Musketeer had loved so tenderly. Stepping back in the small room where her fate took an unprecedented turn the previous year, she could not help but glance at the bed.

If she had not been so tired, she might have blushed at the memories invading her mind. Memories she had often deemed too dangerous to remember. Memories which brought her some peace even in this hour. The Queen meant what she told Aramis while they had halted to eat. She would never for one second regret what they had shared together in that room.

Two nuns were busy taking off her coat. Once the heavy garment was removed from her shoulders, she felt a little lighter. It did not matter that the sun was shining brightly in the room, the Queen knew she would sleep a few hours, hopefully not having nightmares about her son or Rochefort.

“The room is yours for as long as you need it, your Majesty.”

The nun brought her out of her thoughts. She turned around, thanking her silently. The four soldiers were waiting for her in the adjacent room. D'Artagnan kept staring behind him at Aramis, who was waiting by himself. Queen Anne did not know how she could thank them enough, as they did not ask questions, did not raise eyebrows at her behaviour or her past actions. They did not judge her, which was already more than what courtiers in the Louvres did. How she despised these people.

“Porthos will take first watch. And Athos should be here soon.”

“Hopefully he'll bring some good news.”

She offered them another smile as the three of them bowed, before exiting the room. Aramis was pained as each of his fellow soldiers glanced at him on their way out. They did not approve of him staying with her Majesty. They had argued about it, but he would not be deterred. It hurt to notice the daggers in Tréville's eyes. His Captain was ashamed of what he had done.

The weight of his problems was becoming too much to bear. He looked dreadful, his shiny hair hanging loose. There were no more curls, and the dark locks had lost their brightness. The Queen wanted to reassure him, to make him smile and see that everything would be fine in the end. But how could she do so when she would not believe her own words? Instead, she grabbed this fleeting moment of privacy to voice her most inner desire again.

“In time, I must return to confront my enemies. You can escape, Aramis. Have a different life, far away from danger.” Her voice shook a little. She was terrified of her enemies, but her feelings for him were too strong to stand by and watch him die. It would be too much to handle. Her heart would most certainly break from it.

What type of life did she want him to have, he wondered? What life could he have if he was forced away from the regiment, from his brothers, from the people he loved and had sworn to protect? Once again, he had to refuse the offer.

“I've never fled from danger in my life.”

He watched as the Queen took a few steps closer, as she played with her hands to hide her distress. It showed too plainly on her face, in her eyes, for him to ignore it. It sickened him to have to remain where he was instead of reaching forward and comforting her the way she deserved it. There were anguish and despair in her voice when she next spoke.

“Won't you save yourself for my sake? For the sake of my son?”

Aramis wanted to, he wanted nothing more but to relieve her of such a burden. She was so worried about him, his heart was ready to burst out of his chest at the sight of it. They had never had the chance to express their feelings to one another, and in such a terrible moment, they were doing it, both attempting to save the other's life, both too stubborn and dedicated to their duty to relinquish their stand.

He stared at her with agony, most of the words he wanted her to hear trapped in his throat. Porthos was right, he had to deny that anything had ever happened between her Majesty and him, and it started by ceasing to look at her adoringly. It was a painful task, one that proved impossible as the Queen took a deeper breath.

“....Our son.”

Aramis had longed to hear these two words. He had longed for someone to acknowledge who the Dauphin's father really was. He had dreamt about her whispering these words in his ear. In each of his fantasies, it was the most joyful moment of his life, they were all happy and enjoying themselves. The setting and their dire situation made it quite impossible for him to appreciate the statement as much as he would have liked. Yet, as the Queen looked up and met his eyes, he saw his own emotions mirrored on her face.

Closing the distance between them, he grabbed her hands in his. They were so cold and sweaty. A monarch like her should not suffer anything to make her so uncomfortable. The Queen gazed at their joined hands, wishing he would not let her go too soon. It felt good to have him so close, better than what was proper. But protocol and rules be forgotten, only God could judge them in this room. Their past together was sufficient to send them to Hell so a little more hand-holding would not hurt.

“How could I live with myself if I abandoned my duty? My only concern is for your safety. I swear I will not allow anything to happen to you because of me.”

“I trust you, Aramis. You have said so in the past and you have always been true to your word. But this is different. If Athos fails...”

“He will not.”

“If he does....,” she persisted. “...I do not think I'll be able to save you. I cannot, I will not, stand by and watch you die. It will kill me.”

The Musketeer brought her hands up to his lips to kiss them. The gesture was too intimate, yet her Majesty had just admitted that she held him very dearly in her heart, too much for her own good.

“Your Majesty...”

“Stop it.”

“Your Majesty should not say such things. What of your son if he were to lose his mother?”

“Which is the reason why you must flee. So you may be safe and well, and _I_ may be safe and well to raise him properly.”

Aramis pondered her reasoning, searching her face. She looked resolute, and her ideas made quite some sense. It would be a shame for him to abandon his brothers and his duties. He would be a deserter, and he would be tried if he happened to be caught one day. On the other hand, there was a good probability that he would be arrested and tried as a traitor if he decided to stay by the Queen's side to protect her. Choosing the lesser of two evils was never easy, especially when you did not know which one was the worst.

“Perhaps her Majesty is right....” They stared at each other for a couple of minutes. None of them speaking, merely holding hands, and sharing silent words, begging for the other to make things right.

“I should go to them. They might need my help,” Aramis said sadly, letting go of her hands. He felt empty at once. The Queen clasped her hands together, wanting the feel of his fingers trapped against her skin as long as possible.

“Give them my thanks.”

“I will. You should rest while you can.”

He did not bow when he stepped away from her, and it went unchallenged. Queen Anne had other troubles to focus on than a breach of protocol, especially coming from Aramis. With a heavy heart, she watched him close the door, giving her some privacy and time alone to finally be able to lie down and sleep.

Aramis climbed down the stairs, his pace slowing when he walked by the chapel. It would have been a comfort to go in for a few minutes, trying to make peace with God and asking for courage and strength. The events of the previous day and the sleepless night had made him weary. He believed it was his devotion to duty only which kept him standing. At least the Queen would enjoy some quiet while she was still able to.

Abandoning his brothers to pray would not do, though, so he turned away reluctantly, his fingers grazing the crucifix around his neck. He made the silent promise to come back later. At the end of the corridor, he spotted d'Artagnan with Tréville, and went to join them.

“There are not many weapons to use between the four of us but I do think we will be able to defend ourselves if someone comes to attack,” the former Captain stated.

“Nobody will come to attack. Athos will arrive before we even come to that end,” d'Artagnan retorted.

“Even so, we need to be prepared.”

“I can show you what shooting spots we used last time.”

None of them talked as they were led by Aramis. The soldiers were tense, d'Artagnan was curious to know what had happened between his friend and the Queen, and Tréville only wanted to forget that one of his best Musketeers may have compromised himself even more. They spoke tactics for the remainder of their inspection, quieting every time they would approach a room where nuns were working in. Their presence was already a great intrusion, they wished to make themselves as tiny as possible.

It hurt Aramis to realize the others did not seem as comfortable around him as they used to be. Of course, they were anxious about how events would unravel, so he hoped that everything could somewhat come back to normal when danger would have passed. If danger could pass...Focusing on keeping the Queen safe was not enough to make him forget how perilous his own situation was. If they were to be attacked, he almost hoped he would be killed protecting her. A swift death, much more than what he deserved. A shiver ran down his spine.

“I'll go and keep watch with Porthos. One guard is not enough after our long ride.” Tréville nodded his assent.

Aramis breathed out deeply after exiting the main building. The air was still chilly, and there was fog in the fields below the convent. Porthos was standing at the top of a tower, his eyes roaming the horizon.

“I've found food,” he offered, holding out a plate to his friend. The latter accepted it, sitting down on a stool, barely looking at what he was eating, too focused on making sure no one was coming to them. Aramis stood still, gnawing on his own food. It felt good to have something in their stomach after the long hours on their horses.

“Is everything all right inside?”

“They are making sure all potential break-in passages are safely blocked.”

“And the Queen?”

“Sleeping. Hopefully.”

“Good.”

“She wants me to leave while I still can,” Aramis confessed after a while. They had been busy devouring the food the nuns had kindly given them, washing it down with a lot of water. It amazed Porthos that he had not realized how thirsty he had been during the night. Bringing her Majesty to safety had clouded all of their minds and they were only now becoming aware of how sore and exhausted they were.

Porthos looked up at him, assessing his face. It was easy to understand why he seemed so conflicted. The Musketeer groaned as he stood up, his knees cracking. He may not have completely forgiven the other for his liaison with the Queen and its multiple consequences, yet he was aware that he could never stay mad at him for too long. Their friendship was too powerful to be broken permanently.

“What did you tell her?”

“That I could never look at myself again if I were to leave her by herself to confront the accusations. But....what if running away would ensure that her and the child could be saved? What sort of man would I be if I endangered their lives even more?”

Porthos watched his friend struggle with his explanation and the decision he had to make. Staring hard at him, he put both hands on his shoulders, forgetting his watch for a moment. He had ridden all this way to protect the Queen, but also to protect his best friend. Aramis' suffering transpired on Porthos because it was his as well. They were more than fellow soldiers; they were brothers. What affected one affected the other.

“Whatever path you choose, nobody will judge you.” Aramis snorted. Porthos raised an eyebrow at the noise.

“You've all already been judging me.”

“Excuse us if we did not casually accept the fact that you slept with the Queen. After all, everybody does it. No big deal.” He rolled his eyes.

“All right. I suppose I deserved that.”

“Yes, you did. Now, shut up and hear me out. Whatever you decide now, I trust that it will be the best decision you could make. I'd hate to see you leave, but if it is the price to pay to remain alive, I will tie you to your horse and lead it out of France myself.”

Aramis managed to scoff at the threat, clasping his friend's shoulders. There was hardly any trace of anger in Porthos' eyes, and it was a relief.

“Besides, you and I both know it will never come to that. Athos should be here in a couple of hours and he will have found evidence to incriminate this snake of Rochefort. We'll live to see Paris again.”

Resuming his watch, watching out for potential enemies, Aramis hoped he was right.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter VII

 

Athos' horse was galloping fast in the countryside, his rider barely sparing it a moment to slow down. He wanted to put as much distance between the Palace and him as he could before allowing himself to rest a little. His mind was still clouded by all that had happened in Paris. Leaving the Louvres unnoticed had been surprisingly easy, certainly because something had happened with the King. The Musketeer knew his Majesty had been poisoned, many servants he passed in the corridors had said so. Whether the monarch was alive or dead, he did not know. He refused to think of the latter possibility. He refused to think that Rochefort may have assassinated Louis XIII because it made no doubt that Athos and people he cared about would be blamed for it.

Milady had been right. Whatever Rochefort's plan was, it was well-advanced. He cursed himself for not acting out sooner on their suspicion. They had never trusted the Count, not for a single day, but how could they have imagined it would come to such a dreadful end? At least, he might have found a way to expose him for what he really was. The First Minister's seal was safely in one of his pockets, and even though his plan appeared a little far-fetched, it was the best option he had.

Urging his horse to keep on moving, the soldier looked straight ahead in the darkness, willing the leagues to shorten. Being on the road was a terrible waste of time, when there was no time to lose. Every minute which passed put them all in great danger. Constance would not able to conceal the Queen's escape forever and come morning, her disappearance would most likely be discovered. The best that could happen was for people to think it was abduction and that her Majesty had not run away willingly. Thinking back on it, they should have made a mess in the royal bedchamber, make it look like a proper kidnapping. What was done was done, now.

Athos' biggest concern was that he had to put his trust in Milady yet again, when it was the last thing that made him comfortable. She had promised to help, and so far she had been rather useful, offering to stay behind in Paris to find out what had happened to the King. She had sworn she would bring news to the convent if events should develop. Her motivation mattered little to him, so long as she did not betray them. His mind was flowed with memories and feelings of what had happened in Rochefort's office, the ghost of their kiss clouding his thoughts.

He shook his head, letting the cold wind of the night lash at his face. It was not the moment to dwell on private and intimate matters, not when the entire kingdom was endangered. How he despised this woman. She was all he could think about, however shameful it was. Believing her, believing that his brother tried to force himself on her all these years ago felt like a betrayal to his family. Milady used to be his family, though. Athos desperately wanted to trust her, but she could be such a good deceiver. Lately, her life had consisted of lies on top of more lies, murders thrown in the midst. Not much different than his after all, except whenever _the soldier_ killed, it was part of his duties.

Ever since he had sentenced her to death, Athos had tried to set himself loose from his wife, only to have her come back in his life. They were making each other miserable, and it seemed that whatever they attempted, they always ended up gravitating around one another. It sickened him. _I hate her._ He willed his mind to believe the thought. His heart was telling an entire different story. He pushed his horse harder to stop dwelling on it.

Unfortunately, his mount could only ride at such a pace for a few more leagues until it started to display signs of exhaustion. It was a faint feeling, the horse barely slowing down at the start, then it was merely trotting on the road. Athos cursed but eventually came to a stop. Dismounting, he gently coaxed the animal to move to the edge of the forest. It was the middle of the night so it was doubtful anyone would notice him, or would even use the road, but he could never take any risks.

He was halfway to the convent, and there was no point in killing his horse getting there. If he had to stop and wait for an hour, he would endure it. It might do him good to rest, when he came to think of it. His muscles ached when he sat down by a tree, the reins tied around the trunk. There was a pistol on his hand, even though he would hear any potential attacker before seeing them. The Musketeer would be more than capable of readying himself for a fight.

Athos knew better than to fall asleep, not in such a dangerous position. However, his physical needs took the best of him. When he closed his eyes, he only intended to do so for a few seconds. He must have dozed off because as he woke up, bolting upright, the atmosphere around him was less dark, and there were birds chirping in the trees. How long had he been out? His pistol had fallen from his grasp. He lost no time recovering it, scrambling to his feet to shake the sleep from his eyes. His horse was patiently waiting by his side, munching on grass. At least it had rested enough to continue their journey.

Then, the soldier froze on the spot. His mount was no moving, yet, he heard the unmistakable sound of riders coming in his direction. Retreating further back in the forest, he silenced the animal, patting its side slowly. Peering in the distance, he aimed carefully, waiting for his potential target to come closer. The noise grew louder, deafening, and his soldiering skills crushed any other thought he may have had. Nothing else but survival mattered in this instant.

He would have recognized her anywhere, though. In plain daylight, in the dark, in early morning fog, under the rain, even if he was blind. He hated himself for it. Lowering his weapon, he stepped out of the woods, whistling. Although the noise was low and brief, it was perfectly heard. One of the riders wheeled their horse around, pistol in hand, seconds away from firing.

“It's you,” Milady simply stated. Athos walked up to her. There was no sign of panic on her face, so he knew that she would have made the shot without hesitation if he had been someone else.

“What are you doing here? Is the King dead already?”

“He was still alive when we left him.” Athos' gaze settled on the other riders. The voice was barely known to him, but it was difficult to hide his shock when he noticed that it was Constance and Marguerite on the second horse.

“What in the name of God...”

Athos stared coldly at Milady, forcing his heart to stop being happy to actually see her, to know that she was away from the Palace and the problems it could bring. She stared back.

“Matters complicated.”

“Obviously. Care to elaborate?”

“Rochefort poisoned the King,” Constance said, her voice hoarse and weak. If they had ridden in a manner alike to his, no wonder she sounded on the verge of collapsing.

“I know.”

“He's arrested Docteur Lemay and he intended to arrest her as well.” Marguerite sounded no different than Constance. Her voice shaking even more. They had to be freezing. It was too cold outside to travel in such imposing dresses.

“But you escaped.”

“Rochefort had a....I might have....”

“Marguerite proved her defense skills can match the Musketeers'. I think Rochefort must have been unconscious for a couple of hours.”

Constance sounded impressed this time, and Athos had to join in the feeling. He would have never imagined the Dauphin's governess could be capable of violence. He saw Marguerite shrug behind her friend.

“It was the least I could do. I hope he isn't dead, though...”

“I hope he is,” Constance retorted. “Everything will be much easier this way.”

Athos' mind was swarming with thoughts at the new development. Constance was out of the Palace. There was no one to cover for the Queen anymore. Rochefort had been hurt, to what extent nobody was certain, but if he woke up, there was no telling what his next move would be. He was a mad man, and any of his actions could doom a lot of people. Perhaps it was good thing the two women had fled. How Milady had come into the midst to lead them here, he had no clue. It was not the top priority right now.

“I assumed it would be better to have everyone hidden in the same place,” she said, as if answering his silent question.

“You were right.”

“As it often happens. Why are you always so surprised?” He recognized her trademark mocking tone. He rolled his eyes. Leave it to her to find things to joke about in such an hour.

Marguerite was grateful the horse had stopped for a while. Her entire body hurt. It had been more than two hours since they had last halted, and the Dauphin was growing more and more uneasy against her. It was too late to turn back. Besides, she would never acknowledge the thought. She had no desire to hasten her death. Still, the baby needed to be fed, and taken care of. She could not do a good job on a horse, and they had no appropriate food for a child this age. They had no food at all.

The governess was clutching Constance's waist with all her strength, her arm so numb she could not feel it as she released her grip. The respite offered by the sudden encounter with the Musketeer was a blessing. All of a sudden, she felt safer. Carefully, she cradled the Dauphin, looking inside the blanket. Her body was keeping him warm, as did the protective layers draped around him. But cold air hit his face, and it displeased him. There was a whine, before soft cries started.

“What in the bloody Hell!” Athos's head turned sharply at the noise. Looking more closely at the two women, he finally noticed what they were protecting. “Are you all out of you mind? What were you thinking, Constance?”

“I was not going to wait around to be thrown in jail, Athos!”

“This is high treason!”

“Oh, will you stop! You've already been committing treason by protecting your friend!” Milady snapped. “Besides, look at them. Do you really wish they had stayed with this monster?”

Athos was still fuming, but when he stepped closer to look at Constance, even darkness could not conceal how battered her face was. It was a wonder she had managed to ride so far. She must have been in excruciating pain. He winced. She held his gaze, defiant as ever, and his anger softened a little. They had put them in a bigger predicament than expected, and this time, he had no idea how they would make it out all in one piece.

“I promised her Majesty I would look after him. Leaving him alone with Rochefort was never my intention. Not when he knows so much about Aramis and...” She stopped short, remembering too late that Marguerite was not in the confidence about this particular secret. Constance bit her tongue. She was beyond tired, and she could barely form coherent thoughts. She closed her eyes, only to groan in pain.

“I know about the Queen and Aramis.” Marguerite's confession came as a relief. After today, Athos doubted anything could surprise him anymore. He narrowed his eyes at the governess as she raised her head. “I've suspected for quite some time.”

“And you haven't told anyone?”

“I...Well...I wasn't...” She was thankful dawn had not completely settled in. Her blush and the shame in her eyes remained hidden. Her tone was enough for the Musketeer to suspect that she was not completely innocent. Another problem yet to add to the burden accumulating on his shoulders. He would deal with it later.

“I do love endless chats in the countryside, they are so picturesque. But not so early in the morning. I suggest we move.”

Constance groaned at Milady's decision. On the one hand, she disliked having to concede that the woman was right, as she had been all night long. On the other hand, standing still had felt good. Her grip on the reins was growing weaker, and it took everything she had in her to not doze off on the horse. Despite being aware that she had to remain awake to protect the heir, her own injuries and exhaustion were becoming too much to handle.

“How long have you been riding?” Athos inquired, inspecting his friend.

“I have no idea. We only stopped once.”

“You only stopped once? What is wrong with you?” he hissed. Being furious at his wife was something he could easily slip back into. It brought a strange and unsettling feeling deep in his bones.

“Excuse me for wanting to take them out of danger. We did not ride fast.”

“They are riding with a baby! They've been injured.”

“I did not hear them complaining.”

“How can you be so insensible?”

“Oh, now you are the one asking? I did not act so insensible earlier, did I?” Athos shot her a dark look. He did not grant her an answer.

 _They bicker like an old couple_ , Marguerite realized.

“How silly of me. Of course I should have stopped at an inn and explain to everyone that the Dauphin and his governess needed to rest.”

“Stop your ludicrous nonsense.”

Milady looked as if she was about to reply, but thought better of it and shut her mouth. Her point had been made.

“Can you ride?” he asked Marguerite.

“Not with him.”

“Of course not. I'll take him. Can you ride?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. Constance looks like she is about to collapse. You will change positions and I will take the Dauphin.”

It took some time for everyone to settle in their new position. Dismounting, Constance and Marguerite staggered. It felt strange to be on the ground after so long. The governess relinquished her hold on the baby, passing him to the soldier. Athos had hardly ever held a child in his arms, but there was no time to ponder this. There was a warning in his eyes when he handed the bundle to Milady, long enough for him to be back on his horse. Constance breathed out, relieved that the woman had not taken the opportunity to run away. Athos would have probably chased after her anyways. Perhaps she really was willing to help them after all.

It was awkward, riding with the heir in one arm, the other holding the reins. There would be no way to protect the women if they were attacked. Milady would certainly cover him, though. Before setting his mount of the road, Athos handed one of his pistols to Constance.

“As a precaution,” he muttered. She clutched it tightly, her brow resting against Marguerite's back. Her head started to ache the moment the horse started moving. The pain was unbearable. Yet, every second was bringing them close to safety, closer to d'Artagnan. The thought made her grit her teeth and suffer silently.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter VIII

 

d'Artagnan was pacing anxiously the width of the entrance gate to the convent. They arrived a few hours ago, the sun was high in the sky. Athos had not joined them, and it was not normal. He should have arrived by now. Something had had to go wrong in Paris. What if something was wrong with Constance? The young Musketeer hated himself for letting her stay behind. He admired her courage as much as his friends did, but he loved her and it did not suit him to flee, leaving her alone to confront their enemies.

“If you are so inclined to help, I am sure the nuns would like you to make furrows in the fields. Not in front of the convent.”

Porthos was leaning against the wooden gate. He was as worried as his friend, but he could not show it. One hour of sleep had helped him gather some strength. D'Artagnan barely spared him a glance. He stopped nonetheless, sighing dramatically.

“We should be out there with him. Helping.”

“We're helping here, in case you haven't noticed. The Queen can hardly protect herself.”

“Because Constance can?”

“Didn't you teach her how to use a sword and a pistol? I don't think the Queen has been taught as much.”

“Yes, I did but...we're talking about Rochefort here, Porthos. I should be with her.” d'Artagnan rubbed his eyes. He was not thinking straight anymore. They were all under pressure.

“Why don't you go lie down for a bit? I'll take over.”

“Where are the others?”

“The Captain is up there,” Porthos said, pointing at the top of the tower. “Aramis....is in the chapel, I think. At least that's where he was the last time I saw him.”

The silent look they exchanged spoke volumes. They were both scared for their brother-in-arms, wondering what would happen to him, and if they would all make it back to Paris. Despite what Porthos had told Aramis to reassure him earlier, he was afraid that the rumours would be believed and that he could be sentenced to death. Sleeping with the Queen was a treason far greater than any other, if not the greatest, apart from an assassination attempt. But having fathered the Dauphin? The punishment would be more severe than an ax to the neck.

“I will make sure he is still over there.”

Porthos almost told him not to bother. He had seen despair and anxiety pouring out of Aramis. It was better to let him be for the time being. But if their friend could not keep away from the Queen, it may be wise to protect him from himself. There was nothing to fear, d'Artagnan realized as he peered into the tiny chapel. The older man was inside, kneeling by the altar.

Even from where he was, the way his back shook plainly showed that he was crying, even if he was doing so silently. D'Artagnan was suddenly ashamed. He should trust him more, in spite of the shock that yesterday's revelations had been. He was intruding on a private moment, and he was about to retreat to a quiet corner of the convent to nap, when a sudden scream broke the religious silence.

“Riders!” Tréville bellowed from above their heads. D'Artagnan gave a start, Aramis scrambled to his feet, one hand already on the pommel of his sword. As he turned around and saw the other, he did not comment on his presence. He had sensed he was being watched. What concerned him more was the plural their Captain had used. Athos had said he would come alone.

“Sisters, make sure the Queen stays safely in her room,” he instructed a couple of nuns they encountered in the corridor. The shout had brought everyone out of their current work. They were all frantic. The Musketeers were already ready for battle.

Tréville was short of breath when he joined Porthos outside. He was too old to run around like this. It felt good however, to have his heart racing back for action. His work as Captain often left him idle at the Garrison. Porthos had already drawn two pistols, one in each of his hands. His stance was frightening, his eyes set on the narrow path in front of them. Whoever was coming with belligerent intentions would receive a taste of his ferocity.

Gravel scattered under Aramis' feet as he came to a stop. He was resolute to fight to the death. None of his friends would die because of his mistakes.

“How many?”

“Three.”

“Three?” They all glanced at each other. Two riders might have meant that things had complicated and that Milady had to come with Athos. But three....Three meant it could not be their accomplices.

“These doors need to be shut.” The command brought the three Musketeers to their senses. It was only a matter of minutes before they were safely in the courtyard, heavy gates blocking the path to anyone coming to attack.

Aramis ran a hand through his hair, desperate. He could not remember where his hat was. Looking up behind him, he made sure no one was coming outside, especially not the Queen. She could be rather stubborn, a trait he usually admired in her, but not today. He needed her safe and away to be able to concentrate on his duty.

“Whoever they are, they might not come for the Queen. For all we know, they might only be paying a visit to the nuns,” Porthos hazarded.

“In that case, shouldn't we be hiding? A convent guarded by armed Musketeers will be highly suspicious.” Aramis' scoffed at d'Artagnan's suggestion. He was not relinquishing his stand to take cover.

“Hide like cowards? No, thank you very much.”

“I did not mean it like that....”

“How did you mean it, then? Would you like us to clear a path for them to enter and run straight into the Queen of France? Because her being here will not be suspicious in the slightest!”

“I am _not_ a coward! And I would not let anyone hurt the Queen,” d'Artagnan snarled, surprisingly angry at the other. Porthos stepped between his two friends, one hand on each of their chests.

“Calm down. Both of you. We are not cowards, but we need to assess any possibility. How about we do not cower and we simply wait by the side?” He motioned to the long wall leading to the stables. They would have a good angle over there to see who would come through the gates. It would leave them time to react and act if necessary.

Aramis signed heavily, his breathing laboured. It was not in his habit to shout at his brothers in such a fashion. D'Artagnan was staring at him, hands on his hips, his chest heaving with angry breaths.

“Now is not the time to fight among ourselves. Whatever grudge you might hold, keep it for later. Understood?” They both nodded at Tréville's cold tone. They had to put a united front in battle. How did they expect to protect each other's back otherwise?

Minutes stretched as the four men waited for the riders to reach the gates. Despite all the sounds of nature around them, the silence was oppressing. Aramis wanted to apologize to d'Artagnan who was crouching by his side, but he did not dare make a sound. He would not be the one jeopardizing their plan, and potentially their lives. He felt ridiculous to have argued with the younger Musketeer. They all desired the same thing: to protect the Queen.

In the end, it proved to be unnecessary. Tension swept over them as they heard the distinct sound of horses trotting on cobblestones. There was a general sigh of relief when they recognized Athos' stern voice.

“It's me. Open the gates.”

d'Artagnan was the first to step out of their mutual astonishment as soon as the three horses and their riders had entered the courtyard.

“Constance? What happened?” He tucked his pistols away, running to the woman he loved. She was slumped against Marguerite, and there was no strength left in her body for anything else but a small smile of relief at the sound of his voice.

“Rochefort happened. From what I gathered,” Athos muttered. “The King's been poisoned.”

Porthos growled at the news. D'Artagnan was too focused on helping Constance dismount. He kept on checking her face, anger rising within him, but directed at the First Minister instead of his friend. It was a much healthier anger this time. He was going to kill Rochefort if they ever crossed paths again. Once she was safely in his arms, he hugged her fiercely. Releasing all the emotions she had left trapped inside, she finally burst out crying, too happy to be reunited with him, to be in a safe place, to be with her friends. Rochefort would not hurt her anymore.

“Is the King....” Tréville could not utter the word.

“According to Marguerite, he was still alive when they fled.”

Aramis was as troubled by this new development as the others, but his heart clenched when he turned his eyes on the governess, on the woman he had deceived for his own selfish needs. He had dragged her into this mess. It was his own doing. She had been an innocent bystander, a guiltless victim of his careless behaviour. If it was Rochefort who had beaten Constance, he must have been the one hitting Marguerite as well.

He reached out to help her down the horse. Her body was limp in his arms. Shuddering, she clung to his neck, her face buried against his shoulder. She was tired, she hurt, but worst of all, she was ashamed to be helped by the man she had betrayed. There would be a time when she would have to confess her sins, but for now, she desired nothing more than to be close to him again. She used to love him; she might still do, she was not sure of anything anymore.

“I'm sorry,” the governess choked against his uniform. One of his arms came around her waist, keeping her standing.

“You've nothing to apologize for. What happened?” But she was sobbing so hard that he could not make her explain their presence.

“Rochefort poisoned the King, then arrested that enticing Docteur,” Milady said, dismounting, then stretching her arms above her head in an unladylike manner. She hid a yawn with her hand.

“He wanted to accuse Constance as well,” Marguerite continued, turning her head so she could see the former Captain and the Musketeers. “So I....I....I... struck him with a candlestick.”

Porthos whistled his approval. Aramis looked down at her, deeply impressed.

“You did what?”

“He was going to....He would have injured Constance even more if....I'm so ashamed...”

“Oh trust me, there's no need to feel ashamed for _that_ ,” Porthos comforted her. “You're a governess _and_ a bodyguard now!”

She wanted to say that she was not ashamed of her violence, that she was ashamed of everything she had done for the Count, for everything she had done to the Queen and the Musketeer without them knowing it. That it was entirely her fault if they had to retreat to the countryside. That Rochefort might not have driven them away if she had not helped him in the first place. If she had not been feeling so weak, she would have blushed. Instead, she felt sick.

But she could not be feeling sick. She had responsibilities she needed to tend to. There was someone who was suffering more than she was, someone who had to be looked after. The baby had made no sound for the last half hour, and it worried her.

“The Dauphin....”

“I am sure he is safe. You had to think of yourself first.” Aramis was such a liar. It scared him out of his mind that the child could still be with the King and his First Minister. Who knew what would happen to him? He forced his heart to stop pounding at the thought of everything that could go wrong.

“No, the Dauphin...”

“We had to take him with us,” Constance mumbled.

“Are you insane?” Tréville exclaimed, as Athos carefully opened the cape draped around his shoulders, still cradling the sleeping baby. It amazed him that he could fall asleep in such a precarious position. Yet again, he was only a few months old. He required feeding and caring, though. His little body could not handle the events of the night as well as adults.

“Rochefort must have death warrants against both of you by now!”

“Would you have preferred for them to stay and die under his blows?” d'Artagnan hissed, forgetting he was talking to a man he strongly respected and admired.

“We're all going to die now.”

“Don't be so dramatic, Captain.” Milady rolled her eyes. It seemed that she was the only one unaffected by the situation. Tréville glared at her and so did Porthos. “Is there someone else around here to give us food and a bed? I'm in desperate need of sustenance and rest. It is not every day I do something to help my neighbour.”

“She's right. The Dauphin needs to eat and someone has to look at their injuries. Aramis?”

Aramis' head snapped up at his name. He had hardly heard the argument since he had noticed the bundle in Athos' arms. The child was so close to him. The long ride must have been excruciating for him. He was only a baby. The Musketeer itched to have him in his arms, to make sure that he was not hurt. But he could not. It would not do. It was a relief to know that the heir was safe, though. Her Majesty would be happy to know he was now with them. Someone had to go and tell her that her son was at the convent.

“What?”

“Will you tend to their injuries?”

His heart sank. The women were in desperate need of help, it could not be denied. Yet, he would have rather spent the next hour watching over his son, making sure _he_ was fine.

“Of course.” Aramis tore his eyes away to bring his attention back on Marguerite, still pressed against his side. “Come on. We will find some place for you to rest.”

“No, no. You must look at him first. He's more important.”

She shook her head wildly. It made her headache worsen. The Dauphin was still her charge, and it would not do if his governess was taken care of before him. It was the least she could do. Marguerite would atone in every way possible.

“I know nothing about babies. Cuts and bruises are my specialty.”

“He has not made a sound in the past half hour. Something is not quite right.”

“He's a baby. He's sleeping,” Athos muttered, handing the Dauphin to Porthos so he could finally dismount. The Musketeer looked rather out of place with the child in his arms. He scanned his face, only to agree with Athos. The heir had to be sleeping. His tiny chest was still rising so he was breathing.

“Are you a Musketeer or his governess?” Marguerite inquired with a passion she did not imagine she could muster. Athos looked at her, bemused. Porthos chuckled, and Aramis took a tentative step forward. It would not hurt to check. Out of duty.

Nestled against Portho's dark uniform, the Dauphin looked like an angel. A perfect angel. Aramis' heart sighed with contentment, a feeling rather out of place. Gently pressing the palm of his hand to his chest, he checked his breathing. It appeared to be normal. Then, he stroked the tiny white forehead, but it was not overly hot. There was no sign of fever.

The others were all looking at him, so he was aware he could not linger more than what was appropriate. It had been enough for the time being. Enough to know that when he would have been fed and had slept for hours in a warm bed, the Dauphin would recover from the ride. His eyes crossed Porthos' as he straightened up, but there was no resentment there. Aramis managed to smile, the other nodding.

“He will be fine, Marguerite. Now, let's look at your injuries.”

He followed d'Artagnan who had scooped Constance in his arms and was carrying her inside. The governess let her former lover drag her to the convent until she was sat on a hard bed. People were whispering around her, familiar voices along with unfamiliar ones. Aramis was talking to her. A deafening noise rang above her and there were noises made by a baby after a while. As if it had been waiting for this reassurance, her body finally gave up, and everything went dark around her.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter IX

 

The nuns dedicated a small room of the convent to act as an infirmary. It could only host a couple of sick sisters at the time, and usually, only those who had been injured in the field stayed the night. It took more than a couple of bruises to deter these strong-willed women. The room was thus left to the disposal of the Musketeers.

Milady had disappeared to hunt for food, barely acknowledging Athos when he asked her to bring some for them as well. Porthos was still holding the sleeping Dauphin. Constance and Marguerite were respectively given one bed, both too numb to do anything more than sit still.

“We have some goats and a cow to provide for our milk. I will see if any is available for the Dauphin,” one sister said to Tréville, hurrying down the corridor.

Aramis was trying to focus on his patients instead of staring at Porthos, sitting on a bench next to Athos who appeared to be dozing off. Everybody was exhausted. D'Artagnan kept kissing Constance's face, apologizing every time she would wince. Marguerite let Aramis touch her face and her bruised temple. One of her lips was cut and her entire left cheek was taking on a bluish colour. He hoped she did not have internal injuries.

“Does it hurt?” He had to ask the question twice before she answered. His voice came to her from far away.

“My head hurts terribly.”

“Here, drink.” A glass was pressed to her lips, and she swallowed some water down. She looked so frail, so vulnerable. Aramis was still amazed to know she had dared attack Rochefort to protect her friend. He would never have believed her capable of such heroism. Obviously, he had been wrong about a lot of things. Marguerite did not deserve the way she had been played.

The Musketeer took off his heavy jacket and stripped off his weapons. He needed to be comfortable. The governess had winced as she had braced herself on her arms. There might be something wrong with her right arm.

“I'm going to look at your arm. Is it all right?” She barely had the strength to nod. She shuddered when he touched it. Under his fingers, all the bones appeared to be in place. It was either a simple ache or a sprained muscle. Either way, she was going to be fine. “I will find some cold bandage to ease the pain.”

There was a basin filled with cold water near Constance's bed. D'Artagnan was using some piece of cloth to wash away the dried blood on her lips and her cheeks. Inspecting her on his way to retrieve bandages, Aramis noticed a deeper cut by her right eye, one that would definitely require stitching.

All of a sudden, bells started to ring all around them. The noise was deafening. They had no idea of what time it was, but it must have been close to midday. The nuns were summoned to a church service. Constance pressed her head against d'Artagnan's shoulder. It hurt, and she wished the bells would stop. They all winced when the Dauphin woke up and, as should have been expected, wailed loudly. He started to grow uneasy, his tiny fists balled in the air, Porthos trying to hold him still. He was afraid he may drop him.

Aramis soaked a few bandages in the water, but when he turned around to go back to Marguerite, he realized that she had fainted. Perhaps it was for the best. Tréville helped him lie her down more comfortably on the bed, spreading a blanket on top of her. The Musketeer applied a wet cloth to her brow. The baby was still crying his lungs out, which did not help him in his task. No matter how sincerely he wished to block out the sound and the mere fact that the child was in the same room as he was, he could not do it.

Athos had hammered in his head that the heir was _not_ his son, and Aramis was aware he could never be. Not publicly. But there was no one to fool here. There were so few opportunities for him to be close to the baby. His heart was breaking every time he forced his eyes to not look in Porthos' direction.

“What am I supposed to do?” Porthos asked, desperate, when the bells had finally stopped.

“Rock him, what do you think?” Constance replied, holding her head up so that Aramis could look at her multiple cuts. It was difficult to keep her eyes open, but the man she loved was by her side, clutching her waist, and he seemed to have no intention of letting go. One of his hands was rubbing circles on her back. If exhaustion was not already overwhelming her, the sight of Porthos at a loss with the baby would have made her laugh.

“Like that?” He made an awkward attempt, flinging his arms too widely, almost knocking Athos in the face. The latter cursed, standing up to avoid an injury.

“Jesus Christ, Porthos! He is not some sort of cask!”

“Well, _excuse me_ , Captain. I've never had to care for a _baby_ before! How should I know?”

“It's not overly complicated. Even an idiot could do it.”

“I'm letting this one pass because I am holding the heir to the throne and it would not do to hurt him. But I'll remember that, d'Artagnan.” Porthos glared. He made another attempt at rocking his arms, more gently this time. It appeared to be ineffective, though.

“Sometimes, he enjoys it when people sing to him,” Constance suggested. Porthos scoffed.

“You will not hear me sing.”

“I doubt it can be more awful than this shrieking,” Aramis muttered. D'Artagnan laughed, Athos rolled his eyes.

“Why don't _you_ do it? See who is the laughing stock, then?”

Nobody found it amusing this time. Porthos must have realized what he had just said when his friend tensed, his hand frozen in mid-air between the basin of water and Constance's head. Aramis breathed deeply once, twice, closing his eyes to let the emotion pass. He would not allow himself this chance even if he wanted it with all his heart.

“It would not be wise.”

“No, it would not,” Tréville approved.

Opening his eyes, Aramis noticed that the woman was looking intently at him. He remembered when he had to protect Agnes' son the previous year, the small boy who was supposed to be the rightful heir to the throne of France. They both remembered how he had soothed him, singing a lullaby and claiming he had a gift with children. They both knew he had a way with babies. If Marguerite was still conscious, she would have said so. She had witnessed some nights when only her Musketeer could make the Dauphin settle down.

The baby bawled, d'Artagnan and Constance flinching. Porthos held his arms out. He would be lucky if he made it to the afternoon with his hearing as sharp as it used to be a few hours before. His face plainly showed how clueless he was, offering his burden to whoever might be willing to take it. Constance was in too much pain to trust herself.

“Lalalalalalala....,” Porthos started to sing, and d'Artagnan's spontaneous laughter joined the cries.

“Oh, for the love of God, just let Aramis handle it already!” Constance screamed over the raucous, quieting the two soldiers at once. One glance at Athos who gave a shrug, then one at his Captain who nodded so quickly he thought he had imagined it, and Aramis was standing up from his crouching position. His hands were suddenly very moist.

He willed his heart to slow down, his breathing to even out as his best friend gladly handed him the Dauphin. Aramis was only wearing a loose shirt, so the baby was pressed closer to his skin and his body warmth. He knew what he was doing, rocking him, pacing the room, humming softly. The others seemed to have vanished, his world was revolving around the child, and nothing else mattered to him.

The tiny fists were still balled in the air, but as the soldier began to sing one of the Spanish lullabies he remembered from his childhood, they moved less and less. It was easier in Spanish. It was easier to profess his love to the boy who would never know who his real father was. It was only after a minute that he became aware that he was not singing anymore, only talking. The way the sounds rolled on his tongue and between his lips was so natural that it did not occur to him to stop. None of his friends understood a word of Spanish.

The Dauphin opened his eyes, curious at the unfamiliar sounds. His father gazed at blue eyes, the perfect reflection of the Queen's. Such wonderful eyes. He could get lost in them. He could gaze at his son's face forever. Aramis allowed himself one fleeting thought. One tiny moment when it was only his son in his arms. Not the Dauphin, not the heir to the throne. Only the son of a Musketeer and an incredible Spanish lady. Not the Queen, only an amazing woman he had doomed his life for.

There was no danger for him during this fleeting instant. Everything was at its rightful place in the world. Nobody had committed adultery, nobody had been accused of treason. Nobody had had to run away, nobody had been poisoned. Only a father rocking his son, watching in awe as small fingers curled and uncurled around his forefinger.

Then, the moment was broken, flying away to lock itself in Aramis' memories, deep down in his heart. His sigh was one of happiness.

“Are you a Musketeer or his governess?” Porthos joked, stealing Marguerite's words. The silence in the room was oppressing. Aramis could feel all their eyes strained on him. There was a sad smile his face when he eventually looked up.

“That was....impressive, Aramis,” Tréville conceded. Porthos was nodding to concur.

 _“There is hardly a thing more effective than the love of a parent for their child.”_ Everybody in the room froze at the voice, turning around to notice that the Queen was standing by the door, probably having witnessed the entire scene.

Queen Anne had spent the morning sleeping. She had welcomed the warmth of the blankets, despite their roughness and the hardness of the mattress she lay on. Not even the sunshine falling on her face had disturbed her. Her sleep had not been peaceful, and she had woken up in a sweat to the loud chorus of church bells.

Her eyes closed, she had waited for the noise to fade away, fingers pressed to her temples. In this room, on this bed, she could think that she had traveled in timed to a year earlier. The last time she had woken up here, she had been feeling so well, so rested, so loved, so content. If only the same feelings could overtake her now.

However, as soon as the sound had receded, she had become aware of another one, one she was as familiar with, one that found its way straight to her heart. She had slept in her royal dress, and it made no doubt that her hair was tangled. It did not matter to her. Baby cries could be heard downstairs so her general appearance was not a priority. Rushing down the stairs, hurrying along the corridors, she was guided by the sounds of her son.

It had to be her son, what other baby could be here? The idea terrified her. Why would the Dauphin be here? Why wasn't he safe in Paris? Why was he not at the Palace? The cries became louder, there were people arguing and laughing in the midst of it, then a woman who was unmistakably Constance shouted. Before she could reach the room where all the action seemed to be happening, the child had quietened and someone was singing. Her heart had jumped in chest, and she had had to remind herself to breathe. Someone was singing in Spanish. The singing had quickly turned to simple talk.

The Queen had had to brace herself against a wall. It was wrong to be so happy, wrong to entertain this feeling in such a dreadful time, but Aramis was explaining to the Dauphin how much he loved him, asking him to be strong and brave. She had closed her eyes once more, letting her mother tongue flood her mind. How she often longed to hear it. If it had only been her decision, she would talk to the heir in Spanish. Much to her chagrin, it had been forbidden the second she requested it.

It must have lasted for only a couple of minutes, a short time, yet long enough to make her ready to face whatever new troubles might have been thrown at her. Her baby was with them; he was the most important person in her life so as long as she could have him close, she would be somewhat fine. Still frightened, but slightly better.

Aramis's eyes went from the son to the mother as he heard her voice. What she had said lifted his spirits even more than having the opportunity to hold the baby. _The love of a parent for their child._ It was the second time she had acknowledged the Dauphin's parentage today. He never wanted her to stop doing it. Although she may have figured out that his friends knew what had happened between them and that the result was currently in his arms, it was dangerous to speak so freely in public.

That's when he realized that she had spoken in Spanish, so none of the others would understand the meaning of her words. It had only been said for his sake. Aramis could not stop the smile spreading on his face. The Queen never spoke Spanish in Paris. People would have judged her even more, finding it quite despicable and shameful. There were too many tensions between the two countries. The last time -and the first time- the Musketeer had heard her speak her native language was when they had spent the night together. It had been easier in Spanish. Perhaps it would always be easier in Spanish.

The way his face brightened at her words settled Queen Anne a little. She did not know what to make of the situation. Her hands shook, her entire body was trembling because there were people in this room who should have been in Paris. Something must have gone horribly wrong. Focusing on her son and the man holding him was what grounded her.

_“He was distressed. I only meant to help.”_

_“You did a wonderful job.”_

_“Perhaps you should....”_

_“Yes. Thank you.”_

Once Aramis had laid the baby in her arms, their private moment passed as well. He urged his mind to forget that his fingers had grazed hers. The Queen needed to know what had happened in Paris, it was her duty to inquire about it. She had to remain true to her position and to her country. She was Queen of France, so affairs of state should have been the only things worthy of her concern.

It was not true anymore. She may be the Queen, she was also a mother. Rochefort had deprived her of her child the day before, she had been forced to flee without saying good bye, so everything else could wait a few more minutes. Her lips pressed a kiss to the child's forehead. There was a genuine smile on her face when she raised her head.

The Musketeers had all adverted their gazes. Aramis was grateful she had spoken in Spanish as well. That way, his friends could not blame him for having private conversations with the Queen, conversations which should not occur before a soldier and the monarch he was supposed to protect.

“Would someone care to explain to what honour I owe this reunion?” The Queen made her voice as authoritarian as she could muster. It shook in spite of herself. Her heart did not want to know what other troubles had befallen them.  


	10. Chapter 10

 Chapter X

 

Constance winced once more as she felt the needle thread inside and out of the tender skin on her cheek. She had been offered some strong alcohol to numb the pain as much as possible, yet she knew that her Majesty would appreciate a full account of what had happened at the Palace. Knowing how tired she was, drinking would have only accelerated her passing out. Her duty was more important to her, and whatever d'Artagnan had said would not persuade her otherwise.

She was grasping his hand so tight that her fingernails were digging into his skin. Aramis was trying to be as gentle as he could, because he did not wish for his friend to end up with a nasty scar. She had saved the Dauphin from the grip of a ferocious man. There was so much he was thankful for and it was her doing. Hers and Marguerite's. The other woman was still unconscious. If she had not fainted earlier, exhaustion would have probably overtaken her anyway.

The small infirmary was relatively quiet now that the Dauphin had been whisked away with his mother and a nun who had brought milk to feed him. The three of them had gone to another room to have more privacy. It was easier for Aramis to concentrate. He knew the Queen desperately wanted to know all the details that had brought the heir, his governess and Constance to the convent. One of the first things they could do to delay the pain everything would bring was to allow her a few quiet moments with her child.

“I'm done, Constance,” Aramis eventually said, checking his work and wiping the perspiration on his brow. Her shoulders relaxed. She breathed out heavily. Her face was becoming as purple as Marguerite's was, and both her wrists were bruised as well. Aramis turned around to wash his hands, letting d'Artagnan comfort the woman he loved.

“I changed my mind,” Porthos stated, stepping closer as Aramis was rinsing his hands of any blood which had stained them while he was tending to Constance's injuries. “You are good with children and you are the best surgeon of us all. I do not wish to tie you to a horse and let you leave the country.”

His friend laughed dryly, clasping his shoulder before sitting on the bench next to Athos. He desired nothing more than to rest for a couple of hours. One glance at the man by his side indicated that Athos must have been entertaining the same idea. His eyes would shoot open every other second, his head jerking back slightly. Fighting off sleep was a difficult task.

“Did I miss something? Who said anything about leaving the country?” he mumbled.

“No one. The Queen....she asked me to run away while it was still possible to do so.” Aramis was more and more ashamed every time he had to explain this. The statement was enough to make Athos open his eyes fully and look at him. D'Artagnan also raised his head to listen more closely.

“I hope you are not considering it.”

“Perhaps I am. I have never had the intention to abandon my duty. However, if it is the only way to keep them both safe, to keep all of you safe...”

“You are talking nonsense, Aramis!” d'Artagnan hissed. He had always been the most sensitive of them all. He was young, and although they had not known each other for a very long time, bonds had already been created between the four Musketeers. He would hate to have to say goodbye to his friend.

“Am I, really? I dread what Rochefort's next move might be, now. You must have made him even more furious. I am not saying you shouldn't have...,” he added, when he saw d'Artagnan open his mouth, doubtless to argue in Constance's favour. “....But I could not live with myself if I endangered them further.”

Nobody knew how to answer this confession, and heavy silence surrounded Aramis. The joy of having held his son was subsiding. It was surrendering to his turmoil, and to the new troubles of the day. Someone put their hand on his shoulder, pressing to convey sympathy. His eyes were closed, but he could tell it was Porthos.

“I remember a time when Musketeers were not so moody,” Milady clamoured, sounding bored. She had made no noise creeping in the room. “Well, except you of course.” Athos did not grant her the slightest hint that he understood she was talking about him. “Here, catch.” One second too late and the apple would have hit him in the face. He grunted to thank her. They would have to talk about what had transpired between them in Rochefort's office. Athos wished to delay this conversation as much as he could. Her help was still greatly needed, and it would not do to antagonize her.

“I had to fend for myself as it seems that everybody has deserted the premises to go to mass. Food for the heroin.” She set a plate at the foot of Constance's bed. D'Artagnan had to thank her, although this time, he actually meant it. It sickened him to have to trust this woman who may betray them at any moment. She had helped Constance come to him, though, and he was at least grateful for this.

“I am hardly a heroin. I would not be here if not for Marguerite.”

“Will someone finally have the decency to explain why my ladies are considered heroins? And subsequently, what they are doing here?” The royal command brought all the Musketeers to their feet. The Queen watched as they bowed out of deference, d'Artagnan relinquishing his hold on Constance. Milady turned around, bowing as well, albeit less thoroughly. There was a small grin on her face which did not faint when Athos glared at her. There was a moment of hesitation when her Majesty realized that once again, the King's former mistress was tangled in their plans. What her connection to the Musketeers was, she had no idea. It puzzled her.

The Dauphin was being taken care of by the nun. He was eating as would be expected of any famished baby. Time spent apart from him was a torture so she hoped she would be able to join him rather soon. First, she had to make sense of the situation. Constance was avoiding her gaze, Athos was pointedly looking at Milady, d'Artagnan at the floor, Porthos out of the window, and Aramis was busy putting on his leather jacket. All of it was unnerving.

“Her Majesty should sit down,” Tréville suggested, motioning her to the bench. She did so, then waited, hands flat on her lap to prevent her knees from bouncing underneath her dress.

“There appears to have been an assassination attempt against the King.” The revelation shook her. The Queen braced herself on the bench. It did not matter that her station required her to handle any problem with calm and dignity. It did not matter that the King had preferred to trust Rochefort rather than her the day before. Someone had tried to end her _husband_ 's life.

“Tell me,” Queen Anne managed to request after a while.

“I was not present at the Palace,” Athos continued, “but Constance tells us that he was poisoned.”

“Marguerite told me. She is the one who alerted the Guard.”

“We must go back to Paris at once.”

Aramis had to use all his will-power to not shout at her. He understood her distress at the news. It had been a shock for them as well, and it was the man she was married to who had been attacked, their ruler. The reasonable thing for his Queen was to be by his side. It would have been the reasonable thing if there had not been a vile First Minister standing in the way. Going back to Paris certainly meant making matters easier for Rochefort. They had not ridden to the countryside to run back into the arms of this monster.

The Musketeer gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. Not a sound came out of his mouth. Athos and Tréville would handle the problem better. They were not as emotionally involved as he was.

“I believe it would be a terrible mistake, your Majesty. According to Marguerite, it is Rochefort who poisoned the King.”

She brought a hand to her mouth because she felt she was going to be sick. Her stomach heaved with horror. Her heart was pounding in her chest. When she opened her eyes again, the room was spinning around her. A cold drop of sweat rolled down her forehead. She was living in an actual nightmare. It seemed that her entire world was crumbling down.

“What....why....He would not....What would he achieve with such a plot?”

“His plans are still obscure, unfortunately. I can assure you that we will do everything to discover what he is fomenting so you may be safe again.” Athos' promise did little to ease her. Aramis hated seeing her like this. None of his friends enjoyed watching their monarch in such a position, trembling and desperate. None of them knew what to do. Aramis knew perfectly well what he wanted to do: he wanted to hold her in his arms, rock her as he had rocked her son earlier. He wanted to whisper that everything would be fine. He wanted to make her feel better, to make her forget.

“Did he attempt something against the Dauphin? Is it why you have brought him here?”

“Oh, no. I apologize, your Majesty. I truly do. Marguerite informed me that he intended to blame me for the assassination attempt, but he found us before I could escape. I would be in prison if Marguerite had not hit him.”

They all glanced at the unconscious governess. The Queen studied her friend's face, only now realizing how wounded she was. Blinded by her fright, she had failed to see the cuts and the bruises. It gave her the strength to stand up from the bench to go sit on the bed.

“We could not leave your son with him afterwards. We had to flee, and I had promised you I would look after him.”

“You made the right choice, Constance,” the Queen approved, reaching forward to hug the other woman. They shared the embrace for some time, each of them drawing courage from the other.

Her own choice was obvious. Even though it deeply scared her, the King was in great danger if no one was there to warn him that his most trusted counselor was a traitor. There was a chance he would not believe what she would say, yet she had to try. It was her duty. Being Queen meant that her feelings had to be put to the side sometimes. There were tears threatening to spill at the thought. She pressed her fingers to her eyes. Her weakness would not show.

“I have to insist: I must return to Paris. The King needs me.”

“You will not!” The shout startled her.

“Excuse me?” There was anger in her eyes as she turned around to face Aramis. He had no right to tell her what to do or not do. Her reputation as a Queen might have been compromised, she was still a person he had to respect and treat with the deference required. Especially when they were in public. And especially when he was defying her so openly. “You are talking to your Queen, Aramis! I will do what I deem wise.”

As she stood up, she appeared to have regained some of her royal countenance and grandeur. She seemed taller. Aramis was aware he was not behaving appropriately. Athos' hand on his chest was proof enough. It was asking him to calm down and remember who he was addressing. The Musketeer knew perfectly well who he was addressing. He had not meant to shout so loud, but one could only restraint themselves for so long before repressed anxiety overpowered them. There might be consequences later; for the time being he was only concerned with the safety of the Queen.

“Going back would not be wise. Rochefort must have found out that you are not in the Palace anymore. God only knows what story he will invent to explain your disappearance.”

“The King might die.”

“He might not. Rochefort _knows_. What do you think will happen if he catches you?”

“He would not dare.”

“Are you certain? Would you have imagined he could force himself on you? Or poison his Majesty? Or attack innocent women?”

Queen Anne pondered this. Rochefort's actions troubled her. It was unthinkable for her that Spain – that her brother- would have sent someone to ruin the French rulers. To what purpose? Didn't they belong to the same family in the end?

She was torn. Torn between her duty and preserving her life. People would say she was a traitor to her country if -no, when- they realized she had fled while the King was in such a predicament. Perhaps the Musketeer was correct; Rochefort may use it to his advantage. Her ears were ringing with the fury she felt toward Aramis. The beginning of a headache was weaving its way in her skull.

She stared straight at Aramis, forcing her mind to ignore the audience they had. If she listened to her conscience, she had to see that there were good reasons for him to argue. The setting and their close vicinity, without the rigid protocol of royal Palaces, made their relationship more difficult. Self-imposed barriers were slowly breaking down. Feelings which had remained unvoiced and hidden for months were creeping up to the surface. A liberty they had not enjoyed often was plainly settling in. The Queen did not know what to make of this fact. On the one hand, her heart was delighted that Aramis cared so much about her. She could almost entertain the fantasy that he was not talking to his Queen; only to a woman he cherished. Yet, these feelings and this attitude were the cause of their perilous drama.

 _“I am no coward,”_ she whispered, willing her voice to be steady. Using Spanish was yet another barrier crushed. They could be less careful in Spanish. Aramis did not miss a beat.

_“Nobody would dare say you are. This is not cowardice; it is self-preservation. I beg you. Please. You are safe here.”_

_“I must know how fares the King. I cannot abandon him forever.”_

_“I will not give Rochefort the slightest chance to hurt you. Please, stay here. I will go,”_ Aramis decided. Queen Anne would not be deterred. Besides, he had to atone for having yelled at her. The Spanish meant he was mostly forgiven for his escapade. It was the language she retreated to when she needed comfort of the greatest sort. His hands shook at the words.

 _“I forbid it!”_ Not her Musketeer. His life was in serious danger already. Rochefort would have him handcuffed and killed the minute he would know Aramis was back in Paris. He took a step closer, hands on his hips. Athos loosened the grip he had on his brother's uniform. Whatever conversation he was having with her Majesty, they could understand it was not amicable.

“Not alone _._ I will not let you throw yourself into danger's arms.” Their moment was gone. He was doing this to protect her, as duty commanded, but it was not duty driving him now. This was personal, and she would never forgive herself if something happened to him.

“Well, someone has to go, and since we have sworn to protect you, we will not endanger your life by escorting you back. It will be safer for you here with the Dauphin.”

“I am ever so thankful for your dedication to our persons. Nonetheless, you have just explained quite thoroughly why it was perilous for me to return. It is even more so for you.”

“Pardon me, your Majesty. But are you saying that _you_ want to go back there?” Porthos interrupted the conversation, yanking on Aramis' arm so he would face him.

Even though the Spanish had been unintelligible, what he understood and their tones of voice were sufficient. They would all make Aramis sorry for standing up to the Queen later, Porthos more than the others. His friend was not trying hard enough to conceal his feelings, and it was going to doom him. A fate which would arrive quicker if he indeed wanted to travel back.

His friend's eyes bore into him, dark, angry, resolute. He was annoyed at the Queen, a feeling too much out of place, yet one that he could not control. It was unlike him to snap at people he cared about.

“Indeed.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Everybody needs to calm down!” Tréville ordered, raising his voice. He was ashamed of the Musketeers' behaviour. He had not taught them to act so foolishly, not in the presence of the Queen. Porthos looked ready to hit Aramis, and such an action would not improve their problems. He could not believe he had to deal with such children. It may have been opportune to resign completely from the regiment when he had been discharged of his Captain duties. “I am mortified, your Majesty. Please forgive these men for their untactful attitude.”

“My apologies, your Majesty,” Porthos conceded, through clenched teeth. “Aramis apologizes as well.”

“Of course. I am forgetting myself. I am deeply sorry.” It was a lie, she could not fooled.

“I will go,” Porthos stated, daring anyone to object. “I know my way around the streets of Paris better than any of you. And I can make myself quite invisible if I so wish.”

“I'll come with you,” d'Artagnan claimed. It had been a torment for him to escort the Queen while Athos stayed behind to collect evidence. He would not shy from action this time.

“You have to take care of Constance. I will handle myself just fine.”

“You should not go....”

“My Lord! It's a wonder you Musketeers even manage to take a decision once in a while! How boring to spend your time pondering and arguing. And you wonder _why_ I despise working with partners?” Milady complained, rolling her eyes at the entire scene. “The lovebirds may stay together. I'll go.”

“What game are you playing?” d'Artagnan narrowed his eyes. Milady cast a bored glance at him. She made eye contact with Athos at the same time. He looked as intrigued as his young friend, although he was doing better at hiding it. But she knew him too well.

“My motives are none of your concern. You should be thanking me instead of doubting me such.”

“You have given me good cause to doubt your every action.”

“Now you are just hurting me. Perhaps I should have left _her_ wandering the streets.”

“If you so much as attempt to take a step in the wrong direction, Porthos will not hesitate to kill you,” Athos warned her. Portho's low growl confirmed the threat.

“How nice of you to let your friends handle your own unfinished business.” She took a step toward him, never once looking down. Athos did not want to entrust her with such a mission. However, she had shown that she could be resourceful the previous day, and even if he hated himself for the kiss they had shared, his heart was willing to give her a second chance. A chance she may not deserve, and a chance which could kill them all. They were running out of options, though.

Her hands were on him, and before he could break the spell, he was relieved of one of his pistols.

“We might encounter Red Guards. How unfortunate if I could not defend myself properly. Now, if you'll all excuse me, I have no intention of mounting a horse before I rest for a few hours.”

Everybody stared at her in disbelief as she exited the infirmary, striding as if she owned the place.

 


	11. Chapter 11

 Chapter XI

 

The Queen was deeply troubled by the entire scene. She was grateful the Musketeers only thought of her safety, although she did not wish to see them argue amongst themselves because of her. There was too much tension between the soldiers. What was more surprising was the willingness of the woman who had once humiliated her to help them.

She should fight her own battles. She was brave enough to travel to Paris and face her enemies. In the end, it was what she would have to do. Delaying would only make matters worse.

“Would this arrangement fit her Majesty?” Tréville asked.

“I assure you I will come back with information about the King as fast as I can.”

“Very well, then. I trust you will bring news which will allow us all to return soon, Porthos.”

Without another word, she turned around and left the room. The soldiers barely had the time to bow to her. Her most inner desire now was to find comfort with her son. She needed to settle her mind, to forget that Aramis had stood up to her, however rightful it had been, and to hope that the King would be fine.

“What is the matter with you?” Porthos hissed as soon as the Queen's footsteps had receded. He grabbed Aramis by the collar of his coat, their faces so close they almost touched. “How do you expect us to protect her if you keep showing everyone what a fool you actually are?”

“I was only making sure the Queen would not make a mistake.”

“You could have done so without yelling at her. Who do you think you are? Idiot!” One rough shove and Aramis stumbled backwards. He deserved the anger. He was actually expecting more, but his friend simply straightened his uniform and left as well. Aramis braced himself against the wall, hands on his face. He needed to clear his mind.

“I will go and take watch.”

He was glad he did not meet anyone on his way outside. He was not worthy of their company. Each of his actions was a mistake lately. Although there would be no punishment for raising his voice at her Majesty, it did not cancel out the fact that he had been wrong to do so. His feelings could not cloud his judgment. How did you so drastically change your way of thinking when it had been the norm for so long?

Aramis did not know how long he stayed at the top of the tower. His eyes roamed the countryside which was glowing in the afternoon sunlight, then watched as the sun started to slowly go down. There were a couple of hours when the weather had been more than mild, and the sunshine on his face might have been too oppressive if he had not worn his hat. He did not allow himself to find refuge in the shade. He did not even sit down once. Exhaustion would probably claim the best of him if he did so. Keeping watch for the Queen and the Dauphin was his penance for being an hopeless fool in love with a woman nobody should dare love with such passion.

At one point, a nun came to bring him some water and food. These were gladly accepted. The Musketeer could not remember the last time he had eaten anything. It was probably sometime during the night. How strange that one could forget hunger when there were so many troubles on their mind.

The sister would have silently glided away to her other occupations if he had not asked her to stay with him. His voice had sounded like he was begging her to pray with him, so she had obliged. Prayers in Latin soothed him a lot more than fresh air or sustenance. His heart was still heavy when she argued that she would be late for her usual duties, but his soul was more peaceful. He clutched the crucifix around his neck, sighing then crossing himself. Perhaps he would find forgiveness and solace in God. It had always been true in the past. Why would it be different this time?

“We are about to leave,” a deep voice interrupted his thoughts. Porthos came to stand by his side. He had changed clothes; his Musketeer pauldron was nowhere to be seen. He looked like an ordinary man, not a soldier. His weapons were still in place, though.

“Take this. She should not be the only one with extra weapons.” Aramis handed him one of his own pistols, the very best he owned.

“You should see how Milady looks,” Porthos added when he noticed the other inspecting the clothes nuns had found for him. “She made quite a fuss about the dress.”

“It was not as regal as what she is used to, I suppose.”

“This is putting it mildly!” It had lifted the Musketeers' spirits in a strange way to witness the woman complain and purse her lips when she had been given a rough nun outfit to wear as a disguise. Even Tréville had smirked. Nobody could imagine a most ill-fitted garment for the deceptive woman. In the end, she had decided to wear men clothing.

She was waiting downstairs with Athos. Porthos could not leave the convent without having a talk with his best friend. Despite their divergent opinions, what the next day would bring was unknown. Porthos could not settle and accomplish his duty efficiently if their last conversation was one where he had spoken angry words.

“You should let d'Artagnan take over. You look dreadful.”

Aramis laughed dryly, but as he stretched his arms behind his back, he knew the other had to be right. One could only delay sleep of some hours before their senses dimmed. The Musketeer looked nothing like his ordinary, care-free and easy-going self. Porthos missed this Aramis, the one whose laughter could lighten the room, make them shake their heads and wonder which exquisite lady had brought such a sparkle in his eyes. This Aramis had been gone for months.

“He deserves to be with Constance.”

“She's been sleeping for hours. Believe me, you should haul him up here. We all need to rest, Aramis. Even you.”

“I know. I.....I feel better knowing I am the one watching out.”

“D'Artagnan is more than capable. Besides, you will soon be too exhausted and I fail to see how _this_ would be a good protection.”

Aramis had to agree. He could always resume his watch by the entrance gates in a few hours. Gathering his hat and the empty plate the sister had left with him, he followed Porthos down the narrow steps. The convent was bustling with nuns, all tending to their occupations, all in a respectable silence. It was a comfort to see these women so at ease without talking, so at ease with serving God in a simple and humble manner. Sometimes, Aramis envied them. Nothing to worry about, plenty of time to pray and reflect on life, to ask forgiveness.

“I apologize for earlier. You were right. I should not have talked to the Queen like I did.”

Porthos stopped in the middle of the corridor, studying his friend's face. This time, he seemed sincere. He _did_ look terrible. Worse than all of them. Worse than the women who had received a beating and ridden all night long afterwards.

“She does not seem to bear you ill for it, which is a wonder in itself. I do not condone it, whatever you have with her. I really don't. It can only lead to a disaster.”

“Aren't we already living the disaster?”

“Well, this one isn't entirely your fault. Rochefort may still have decided to poison the King even if you had stayed away from her Majesty.”

“Still, there would be less to worry about. Thank you for riding back.”

“I'm doing my duty as a Musketeer. We all knew we could not let the Queen ride to Paris before being absolutely sure it was safe. You did know this, didn't you?”

Aramis dragged a hand through his hair, looking back on his outburst earlier in the afternoon. When he looked up again, there was a sheepish smile on his face.

“I'm a fool, aren't I? The way she gets at me, though, Porthos. I really want to stay away, I am trying, albeit not very hard, it's true, but...It's not healthy for us to be together in such a place. Everybody here knows about us, well almost everybody.” The governess was the only person unaware of the connection between Aramis and the Queen. How they would manage to keep it a secret was a mystery.

“I suggest you stay close to Marguerite, then. Less chances to expose yourself. And it will only be one day. Two at the maximum. We will return shortly.”

Porthos plainly saw how troubled the other was. Aramis was fighting inner battles with his soul and his heart. Focusing on finding information about the King, on stopping Milady from any betrayal she might have in mind, and on making it out of the capital city alive were what he needed to make his friend better. In the mean time, Athos and Tréville would make sure that he did not do anything stupid toward the Queen or the heir.

“Be careful. And don't do anything I wouldn't do.”

“You know me. I am the embodiment of caution!” The grin on Porthos' face was genuine. No matter the situation, he loved danger. The joke warmed Aramis' heart, because he knew his brother would be fine, especially if Milady kept true to her word. She could be deadly so having her on their side was a great asset.

Aramis reached out to pull Porthos into a hug, clasping his back loudly. They were not used to not going on missions together, to not be around to protect the other. As Musketeers they had been trained to care for their brothers-in-arms' safety as much as for their own. The only thing he could hope for was that Milady would act the same way.

It was a thought shared by Athos while he was inspecting the horses in the stables. When they had sneaked into Rochefort's office, he had felt as safe as he could because he was the one with her. He knew her better than the others, they had lived together for some time after all. He knew her ways and her tricks. However, Porthos had spent most of his life on the streets. He would be more than able to sense if she was to turn her cloak.

“Where did she find these horses?” he muttered to himself, patting the side of the horse Milady had used to join them. It was a beautiful animal, tall and dark. It had to belong to a wealthy man. It looked like it was being treated far better than horses which belonged to most commoners.

“The gate to their stables had the easiest lock to break ever. Two minutes and these beauties were mine.”

“Two minutes? I've known you to be faster.” A short chuckle rewarded Athos' jest, even though he had not been looking for this reaction. Rounding the animal to grab its saddle, he saw her by the entrance, half hidden in the shadows. Heavy clouds were settling in the sky, shielding them from the late afternoon sunset.

“My thoughts happened to be a little distracted last night.”

Athos did not acknowledge the invitation to have the conversation they were bound to have to suffer. He needed his mind clear, and memories of how passionate and angry their kiss had been would not help. Saddling the horse kept him busy for a moment, until he could not ignore that she had come much closer. The more he was trying to ignore her presence behind him, the more aware of it he was growing.

“Are we really going to do this?”

“Do what?”

“Act as if nothing happened.”

“Now is not the time.”

“There'll never be a good time for you. Unless you're drunk. And even then, I am not sure. I suppose I'll only be one of your dirty little secrets then.”

“Will you stop being ridiculous?” Athos finally turned around, more because the horse was ready than because he wanted to look at her. There was a part of truth in her words, and it disgusted him. What disgusted him more was that she could still take his breath away, even grimed as a man, from the shirt to the heavy boots, her long hair draped on her shoulder in a braid, a scowl on her face.

He pushed past her to tend to Porthos' horse. Not that his friend could not prepare his own mount. It would give him another reason to ignore his wife.

“You are the one acting like a child and tiptoeing around the issue, Athos. I am completely content to talk about repressed feelings, guilt and shame. They've been my companions for a long time.” They had been his as well. Milady knew it. She was touching a delicate subject on purpose. He was not sure he was thankful or annoyed at her for making him face the problem.

“I hate you,” he said under his breath.

“So do I.”

“Why are you helping us then?”

“Don't tell me you haven't figured it out yet?” This time Athos did stop what he was doing to look her straight in the eyes. There was no malice there, which was a surprising change. “Isn't it obvious?”

“It is quite the opposite. Please enlighten me.” She rolled her eyes, but she did not say anything at once. Athos was not going to wait around to attempt to untangle the webs of her complicated mind. Ever since she had broken his heart, she had had the tasteless gift to make him see the worse in people, and to always believe they were about to betray him. Whatever reason she would come up with, he was prepared to dismiss it.

“You've joined the Musketeers because of me and....”

“You are not the cause of everything.”

“Quit interrupting me when I am speaking the truth!” she hissed. He despised obeying her, but did nonetheless, because she was rather correct in her assumption. “You joined the regiment because of me and any idiot could see that they're your family now.”

“Are you trying to gain my forgiveness by helping save Aramis?” Athos sounded bemused. It was so unlike her, so unlike everything she was known for.

“That and also attempting to prevent Rochefort from starting a civil uproar.”

“Why?”

“I know, after the King rejected me, I should not worry so much about his life and the well-being of the kingdom, should I? But Rochefort....”

Milady pressed a hand to her throat remembering how the First Minister's hands had closed on her the previous morning, how he had wanted to strangle her. For a split second she had been terrified, and it was enough to make her seek revenge. If she happened to encounter him in Paris, it would be her pleasure to make him personally sorry for his actions.

“If I can get my revenge from him as well, I will be satisfied.”

“I should have known you had another motive to return to the city.”

“I _will_ come back here with Porthos, Athos. There is nothing for me in Paris any more.” He cocked his head to the side, clearly doubting her. She sighed dramatically, putting on a pair of riding gloves. “Honestly, you could at least _pretend_ to trust me. Even a little. Why did you save me from Catherine yesterday if to cast me away so easily?”

The answer was easy: he needed her. The soldier in him had needed her because she was the one providing information about their mutual enemy. She could not be spared. There was another answer lying under the surface as well; one he was forcing himself to disregard. An answer he had willed his mind to lock away forever for months ever since she had made an abrupt return in his life and he had found out she was not as dead as he thought.

“My God, she was right,” Milady stated, gazing at him without blinking. Although Athos had learnt to remain impassive and hardly show his feelings, there were emotions she did not need to witness to know they were there. “I knew I was right. You still love me.”

“I sentenced you to death. I wanted you dead. If this is love to you, your mind is even more twisted than I imagined.” Milady laughed, but this time it was neither to mock nor be sarcastic.

“Oh no. Your duty, your obligation was to want me dead. You never wished for it. You have had multiple occasions to end my life since. And you've never acted on it.”

“God only knows why. I hate you.”

“Hatred is a strong emotion. I'll take it.”

“I despise you,” Athos added, but she was breaking down the restraints he had built around his soul in the same fashion as she had done the previous day, when he had asked her if his brother had truly tried to force himself on her, and his murder had only been self-defense. There had been a fragility in her eyes he had never seen in her before. Granted, she had almost been hanged by Catherine, but he wanted to believe that she was sincere. He hated himself more than he hated her for allowing disturbing warm feelings to creep back.

“You wish you did. But you don't. Not really.”

There was a satisfied smirk on her face that he wanted to wipe away. Even after all these years apart, and after these months fighting each other, him preventing her from plotting with the Cardinal, she still knew him better than anybody else would ever do. It sickened Athos. It was aggravating. It was comforting.

Despite knowing that it could only end badly, he took a step closer, hands on his hips, scowling.

“You better not be playing mind tricks. The hour is all but appropriate for it.” He meant to sound threatening, to make himself snap out of it.

“Or else what? You will kill me? As if I had not heard it all before. I am not afraid of you. You could not hurt me even if you had to.” Nothing he could say frightened her anymore. She had almost met death too many times in the past.

“You cannot lose me again,” she added. Athos growled, forcing his heart to believe this was a lie. But it was not. It was the opposite.

Before he could comprehend was he was doing, he had her trapped against the wall of the stables, her body pressed against him, and his mouth was on hers. It was frantic, messy, wild. Anything but romantic. It was need and lust, hopefully not love. He held Milady's hands above her head, because he could never not be too careful with her. She was distracting, and it was safer to have her fingers away from his weapons.

His other arm grabbed her waist, and his lips stifled her groan. Neither of them wanted to stop, neither of them cared if someone else walked in on this. There were too much anger and resentment to be ridden of. They did not have to be careful, and they were not.

After the few first seconds of surprise, Milady could only give in and fight for control. There was nothing gentle about the way he was ravishing her mouth; it was as powerful as the kiss they had shared in Rochefort's office the day before. Only this time it did not stop there. She could not help but shudder when Athos' beard scraped the side of her face and his neck, until his mouth settle on the exposed skin of her shoulder. He bit there, teeth sinking in the flesh, then kissing it to soothe the pain away. She did not even rebuke him.

“You do realize you have just earned yourself another difficult conversation when I will be back,” she whispered between pants after another kiss. Athos let go of her hands, resting his forehead against the wall. He was an idiot. His own breathing was erratic.

When he finally looked at her, he caught a glimpse of her flushed cheeks. She did not look sorry. He was not either. He was doomed.

Glancing at her shoulder, he saw the red marks he was responsible for. Quickly untying the scarf he kept around his neck, he put it on her instead.

“Always a secret. Wasn't I correct?” He glared.

“The others will be waiting.”


	12. Chapter 12

 Chapter XII

 

 

The Queen waited by the side of the entrance gate to the convent while the Musketeers were biding goodbye to their friend. Everybody knew there were strong bonds between all of the men, she had already noticed it in multiple occasions. Sometimes, when they were escorting her, they would joke and banter, and it warmed her heart. They seemed to have carefree souls and to enjoy their life to the fullest. It was something she yearned to have for herself.

Aramis appeared to be ignoring her completely. He had bowed as was expected when she had joined them, but nothing else. There had been no lingering eyes, no pointed looks. She was grateful for it. They would not make another scene in public. It was troubling her that they did make a scene earlier. It should never have happened. They should not have to argue. She was Queen of France and her commands had to be obeyed without questions, or at least dismissed with the same tact Tréville had used at first.

Queen Anne was more on edge because he had dared challenge her and speak his mind as if he was addressing an equal. There had hardly been any caution in his voice, the Musketeer had seemed to have forgotten their respective positions. She was not used to it. To say that she had not found it a little seductive would be lying. But no, she could not entertain such feelings, she chastised herself. Soon everything would be at peace and she would have to take her rightful place by the King's side.

“May God protect you, Porthos,” she wished, offering her hand for him to grab when he was on his horse. There was a comforting smile on his face as he bent down. Her own was rather forced.

“Do not worry for me, your Majesty.”

As she stepped back to allow him to turn his mount around, her gaze swept over Athos who was helping Milady on her horse. It might have been nothing, but he seemed to hold on to her hand longer than was required. The Musketeer talked to the woman as if he had known her for a long time, and not only when she was the King's mistress. It roused some curiosity in her. Nobody else appeared to have noticed Athos' gesture so the Queen supposed she had simply imagined it.

Perhaps she should have offered her blessing to the woman willing to help, but it was beyond her to do so. Instead, she nodded curtly, Milady nodding in return before grabbing the reins and following Porthos' horse down the path and away among the trees. The Queen stood still with her soldiers for a long time after the dust had settled and silence had claimed the surroundings.

Now, all she could do was wait and pray. The Dauphin was sleeping, a nun at his side. He would be well-taken care of. The Musketeers would certainly take watch again, especially now that night was close. What could she do? How could she make herself useful? Staying idle was not good for her. There were too many thoughts swirling in her mind, too many worries and problems unsolved. If she remained by herself, she would collapse. There was almost no strength left in her body.

Although she had slept a couple of hours with her son in the afternoon, she did not feel rested in the slightest. She had been awaken in a sweat by nightmares of blood, treason, abandon. It was not a time she wished to re-enact. The only wish she had was one she could not request. It would not do. They had to keep their distance. The simple act of talking to Aramis could have repercussions.

“Are Constance and Marguerite well?”

The Musketeers all turned around at the question.

“Constance is sleeping, your Majesty. Marguerite did wake up for some time, but she was too exhausted. She is resting. They will both be fine.”

“Very well. Thank you, Captain.”

“I will go and see if I can be of assistance to them,” Aramis decided, not waiting for the others as he strode back inside the convent.

“Shall I escort you to your room, your Majesty?” The question was asked out of deference, she thought. Not because she had made to follow Aramis. They would not have seen it. It had been but a faint switch in the way she was moving.

“Please, Captain. And ask a sister to find me some other clothing to wear. This dress is oppressing.”

Athos stayed behind to take first watch, d'Artagnan bid her a good rest as he disappeared into the infirmary. Queen Anne heard Aramis whisper as they walked by, but she could not stop to inquire about it. Her son was waiting for her upstairs so it was more than enough to take her mind of her Musketeer.

It was reassuring for Aramis to see that Marguerite was awake and sitting up on her bed. There were dark circles around her eyes. She could only clutch the blanket draped around her shoulders with one hand as her other arm still hurt too much. Her lips stretched into a thin smile when he came to sit next to her. It was a comfort to have him close.

“How are you feeling?” Her head was still aching, her temples hurt, but at least she had managed to sleep a little.

“Better, I think, although I was hoping it was merely a nasty nightmare.” His _chuckle_ was comforting.

How he could affect her even when she knew what he had done with the Queen, and after having betrayed him. The governess was disgusted with herself. Her stomach had heaved with guilt the first time she had woken up in the afternoon. She had not eaten since so she would not be sick tonight. Her body was urging her to scoot closer to his, because he was warm. On the other hand, her heart told her she was not worthy of it, that she was not worthy of anything he could provide for her. He did not love her, he never had. She should despise him. Why didn't she, then?

“I am afraid it is all very real, unfortunately. Porthos is riding back into town to find out what's happened today. Hopefully we will find some way to counteract Rochefort's plans and all of you will soon be returned safely to Paris.”

Marguerite nodded weakly. Shame even prevented her from looking at Aramis in the eye. If his friend did manage to find evidence against the First Minister, perhaps she would never have to confess her despicable actions.

“What you did was....impressive, Marguerite. I would have never believed you could stand up to such a man as Rochefort.”

“I did hurt myself doing it, did I not? I would hardly call it heroism.”

“On the contrary. It makes it even more so. I am proud of you.” The words were spoken softly, in a whisper. This time, she had to look up.

He sounded genuine, and his eyes shone brightly with honesty. They also shone with lack of sleep. How long had it been since he had last slept? Had he slept at all since they arrived at the convent? Marguerite cared for him, too much for her own good. Everything that had happened since Rochefort had forced himself on the Queen affected him in a greater way than it affected her. His life was on the line. He had no idea that she knew, but the governess was perfectly aware of all the troubles Aramis had to face and fend off.

Still, he was by her side, taking care of her. The woman did not deserve it. She deserved contempt and anger. Tears threatened to spill so she wisely chose to lie down, claiming that she was too tired to sit.

“Would you care for some food?” Aramis asked, helping her down. He drew the blanket on her. Her refusal was silent, only indicated by a motion of her head. At least she did not seem in any danger anymore. He told her that he would come and check on her later, but there was no response to this either.

D'Artagnan was settling next to Contance's bed. He intended to spend the night there, on the floor, until it was his turn to watch out for enemies. It would be as comfortable as any other place in the building.

Light was rapidly dimming outside. Candles were brought out in the corridors. The nuns had offered the soldiers a large room where they had put all of their gear. They had even provided warm blankets and pillows so they could rest. Aramis grabbed some and settled in a corner, never stripping of his weapons. For all he knew, they might be attacked during the night and it would only make him waste time to retrieve them. Slept overtook him faster than he thought, and he had not said two prayers before his eyes fully closed.

He was awoken in the worst way possible. Aramis bolted upright at the shrieking. He cursed as his head hit the wall behind him, and his skull ached painfully. Almost all the candles were extinguished, yet he noticed another form move on the other side of the room.

“What is _that_?” Tréville muttered.

“The Dauphin.” He groaned in pain, rubbing the back of his head. The other cursed, which made Aramis smirk. “At least you are not standing next to the Queen's room.”

“Thank God for this. I'd be half-deaf by now.”

They fell silent, both attempting to resume their slumber. The cries did not lessen, making it impossible to relax. Aramis knew it was perfectly normal for babies to wake up at any hour of the night. It did not always mean that something was amiss.

“There's no point in lying there if not to sleep. Athos has been keeping watch long enough.”

“You are absolutely right. I'll go and take over.” Tréville had made to stand up but Aramis was faster. In a matter of seconds he was scrambling to his feet, looking around him for his cape. The night would be chilly.

“Straight outside, Aramis.”

“Where else would I be going?”

“We both know where.” Even through darkness, he felt the Captain's stare on his back as he walked passed him. Aramis only exhaled the tense breath he was holding when cold air lashed at his face in the courtyard. The baby's cries were still perceptible.

Athos was reclining against the wooden gate, hands keeping his blue cape close and tucked around his chest. Aramis blew on his hands to warm them up, stopping at his friend's side. One small nod acknowledged his presence.

“You can go rest.”

“I am barely tired.”

“I'll keep you company, then. The Dauphin's waking up everyone and there is no way I will fall asleep with such a racket.”

Athos raised an eyebrow, but it went unnoticed. He did not require company. He was content to brood over what had happened with Milady. However, the other soldier was being rather reasonable, drawing himself away from the child, so Athos would not be the one sending him back inside.

“Help yourself to the wine if you so wish. It _is_ cold, do not judge,” he added as Aramis opened his mouth in disbelief. Doubtless Tréville was unaware that his soldier drank on duty. Alcohol did wonders to warm a freezing man, though, so his friend preferred not to rebuke him. Not that it was his job to do so. After what he had done to the Queen in the afternoon, it would not be credible to sanction Athos for a cup of wine.

“Porthos will be fine,” Aramis stated after they had been quiet for too long. Silence had settled around them. The Dauphin had stopped bawling.

“I know.”

“He will not let her put us in danger.”

“She won't.” Athos trusted her when she said she would help their friend. She would come back to the countryside, except if something stopped her from doing so. He had seen the hurt look on her face when he had left her in the stables. It had been genuine. Kissing Milady was a thing he had forgotten he could enjoy so much. Yet it was neither the place not the moment to continue the discussion which could make him challenge his life as a Musketeer.

“They will be back. Both of them. Safe and well.”

“What happened to not trusting her?” Aramis was not ready to put his own life in Milady's hands. It had been revolting to allow her to accompany Porthos. He should have been the one on the road with him. It was partly his fault, and nothing would help redeem himself but righting his wrongs personally.

Athos did not wish to discuss this. It was his own turmoil, one that had nothing to do with the task presently at hand. He could conceal his feelings like he always did and deal with them on his own private time. Instead of answering, he grabbed the bottle of wine and drank straight from it. It burnt his throat. He coughed, then drank again.

“Athos, what _happened_?” Aramis asked once again. There had been an hesitation stretching for too long and he could sense something was not right with the other soldier.

“Nothing.”

“Athos....”

“Aramis.” Athos faced him, daring him to inquire further. He did not want to fight with his friend tonight. Neither did Aramis. Besides, they were confined all together. He was bound to find out what the matter was sooner or later.

“She was almost killed last night,” Athos confessed. The words were swirling in his head, the wine had eased his tongue a little, and he knew Aramis would listen without judging. And if he did, he would keep it to himself. After all, Athos had kept his secret about the Queen for a year. It was the least the soldier could do: listen and not share any disbelief he might feel.

“By whom? Did you....”

“Do you remember Catherine? She was there in Pinon?”

“She almost shot you, didn't she? Yes, I remember. What of her?”

“She was stalking Milady in Paris. There was a nose around her neck when I found them.”

“And you saved her?” Aramis was simply asking, trying to make sense of what Athos was explaining. After everything that had transpired between him and his supposedly-dead wife, it came as a surprise.

“I am no monster. I was not going to stand by and watch her die.”

“ Don't you want her dead?”

“No,” Athos eventually replied. “I don't. Not anymore. I don't think so.”

“Quite a change, indeed. May I ask what triggered it? Or is it simply that acting out of chivalry made you reconsider your position?” Athos rolled his eyes, the motion visible in the dark. Aramis laughed at his own ludicrous suggestion.

“She maintains she only killed my brother because he tried to force himself on her. I've never believed it before. She's a liar, always has been. You should have seen the look on her face, though. I'd never seen such pain and suffering in her before. I did not _think_ she was capable of such emotions.”

“So now you want to believe she is telling the truth?”

Athos grunted, because he was not certain of his answer. What if he gave his trust only to have it shattered once more? He hated her for it, for making him vulnerable whereas he was a strong dutiful soldier. Not even alcohol made him weak these days. Milady was the only aspect of his life tugging at his heart and hurting him. She was a part of his life. She had been since the first day he had laid eyes on her. A strong-willed woman was that he had needed, what he had always needed. They were meant for each other, whether he liked it or not.

Athos shook his head at the thought.

“What is it?” Aramis asked.

“She's infuriating.”

“Aren't all women?”

“You're a better judge of that than I am.” Aramis laughed again, quite heartily. The sound surprised him. After the turmoil of the day, some light banter was appreciated, even if it came in the middle of a grave conversation.

“In the end, I guess that if _you_ trust her, I suppose we should not worry either.”

“Here's to hoping I haven't made a terrible mistake.”

Athos reached for the wine bottle, only to find that it was empty. He sighed. Aramis could see his friend was not telling him everything there was to know about Milady and the new developments between them. The Musketeer was not the only one fighting inner demons. Athos had never been the one to open up easily. It had taken years before he talked about his wife, and he might never have told the others that he used to be a Comte if not forced to. So long as Aramis only had to worry about Red Guards and Rochefort and not the woman riding with Porthos, the rest could be put to rest for the night.

 


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter XIII

 

Porthos rode in complete silence. He had no intention to talk to his companion unless forced to. Milady did not seem to abhor the unspoken decision. They were riding side by side, their horses sometimes slowing down on their own accords, and neither of the riders was going to push them faster. They had to arrive in Paris in as little time as possible.

Complete darkness surrounded them, making it easier to cross fields and quiet villages. Heavy clouds were in the sky, and not a star could be seen. It was very cold, especially with the wind lashing on their faces. Milady had drawn the hood of her cape on her head, but her teeth were still chattering. She would not think about how frozen her cheeks or her ears were. She could barely keep her eyes open. At least she was grateful for Athos' scarf around her neck. It prevented the icy wind from invading her shirt.

There was nothing else to do but follow the empty road and think back on their discussion in the stables. It would take time to make him see that she actually wanted to change. Everybody was entitled to change, weren't they? Even when their actions had been so despicable and they had committed so many crimes they had lost count of it. When would Athos understand that everything she had done for the Cardinal was to survive? He could not expect a woman to make it far in society if she did not have some sort of influential support. Her activities had simply been what she could do best: plot and deceive.

After all, he was the one to blame for it. If he had believed her the first time she had said that Thomas really tried to rape her, she would not have been sentenced to death and she would not have hated him so much. How could a man who had claimed to love her with all his being change his mind as he had done it? It was his brother he had lost, very well. Milady understood that it had been a blow to the heart, but what had hurt the most at the time was to realize he believed her to have coldly murdered Thomas.

It was the main reason why he hated her, why he wanted to keep her at bay. However, ever since she had come to seek his help to rescue the royal household during the solar eclipse, there had been slight changes. Every time they would meet, he would still scowl; she would still appear detached and untouched by her disgraceful downfall. It was enjoyable to be mistress to the King. It had advantages which could not be overlooked. The King in himself was a bore and a childish person. If he had provided for her before shunning her from the Palace, she might have claimed he was a decent human being. He was not.

Athos had tried to help, even though she had dismissed it at the time. Being back in his good grace was a wish she had forbidden herself from having because it could never happen. She was not so certain of it anymore. They had kissed more in two days than in the last years. The feelings that had overwhelmed her were ghosts of a happy and exquisite time they had shared. They were both shocking and delightful. It disturbed her. It seemed unthinkable that she could feel such yearning once again.

The Musketeer seemed to have felt the same. Could they go back to the way they were before their world had shattered? The answer was certainly no. There had been too much blood and too many betrayals. This carefree part of their life was long gone. What if they could have something else? What if he chose to believe her this time? What if he accepted her for what she had become? After all, he was a drunk himself, and it did not bother her much.

Milady groaned in spite of herself. Why did it have to be so complicated? Why did she have to worry about this when she was rushing to meet danger with a man who hated and distrusted her? Fortunately, Porthos did not hear a sound, too focused on whatever might greet them in Paris. The soldier in him wanted to make haste. Yet, his conscience also warned him that if they did not halt at least once, the horses would soon reach their breaking point.

The woman only realized he had stopped when he shouted, quite ungentlemanly.

“What are you doing?” she shouted back, disrupting the silence.

“The horses need to rest for a while.” Leaning forward, she patted hers, feeling the hard and hot skin even through her gloves.

“Mine is more than able to continue.”

“You do not get to decide. We'll rest.”

“Who put you in charge?”

Porthos ignored her, dismounting and letting his horse roam in the vast field they were in. His body ached from the hours of riding. It was a sensation he was used to and it would fade quickly after a few minutes. Milady trotted back to him then stopped and waited.

“What?” he snapped. She had been staring at him, clearly expecting something.

“Won't you help me down?”

“We both know you can perfectly do so on your own.” Porthos scoffed, and did not move to assist her. She sighed dramatically, cursing Musketeers under her breath, but eventually jumped down by herself. Clutching her cape around herself, she walked around. Impatience was telling her they had to hurry on. One day had passed and who knew what Rochefort might have accomplished.

“What exactly is it you want to do when we'll be in Paris?” Milady asked. Porthos seemed to consider ignoring her once more, but decided otherwise. If they had to work as a team, communication was essential.

“One of the last places where we are susceptible to find friends is the Garrison. We'll go there first, hopefully they will know what's happening in the Louvres. And if they don't, I know taverns where Red Guards have their habits.”

“Or the entire population may be aware of the situation and any idiot could provide information.”

“Or that.”

“The Garrison, the taverns. Not the Palace?”

“Too dangerous.”

“For you maybe. I can easily sneak in and out.”

“I am not letting you out of my sight,” Porthos said between gritted teeth. Milady rolled her eyes at his stubbornness. “And remember, you are _not_ to kill anyone.”

“Unless it's Rochefort.”

“Nobody.” But Porthos had hesitated a second too long. She smirked. Things may change if they were to come face to face with their common enemy. “I am serious. We don't want to leave any trace behind.”

“Yes, yes, I know. My beloved husband did mention this.” With a motion of her hand, she stopped him from treating her like a child to whom instructions had to be repeated several times to ensure they were understood.

The Musketeer kept his eyes on her the entire time they waited for the animals to have recovered enough to resume their journey. She spent her time sighing and stating loud enough for him to hear that they should already be back on the road. It was a wonder he managed to bear it silently. He deserved some sort of reward for it.

It was the middle of the night when they entered the capital city. The streets were relatively quiet for the hour. The horses had been left in the surrounding forest, hidden, and reins secured around tree trunks so they would not escape. The two accomplices would be less noticeable on foot.

They did not speak a word, walking side by side, checking any side alley out of habit. Milady kept her head down, the hood hiding her features. Porthos was doing much the same. His right hand was on the pommel of his sword, his left one clutching a pistol. Bells rang in the distance, which made them both jump out of surprise. Milady grinned, but refrained from saying anything. She noticed how the other's quickened his pace a few streets away from the Garrison.

However, she collided straight into him as they were about to round a corner.

“What the....”

“Hush!” Porthos hissed, flattening her against the wall, one arm across her chest. He waited for her to stop resisting the pressure before peering across the square to the entrance of the Garrison. Milady followed suite, curious. It took her one glance to understand what was wrong.

“These are no Musketeers,” she whispered. Red Guards were stationed where Porthos' fellow soldiers should have been. Something was terribly amiss. Where were the usual sentinels? His blood turned cold in his veins. His heart was pounding so hard in his chest he assumed it could be heard from meters away. “What do we do?”

“I don't know. Let me think.”

“Should I go and ask them?”

“What? No! Stay where you are.” His arm was back around her shoulders, forcing her to crouch down. They would remain hidden until they could come up with a new idea. They would not do anything foolish.

“See, this is why I was complaining about the nuns' lack of clothing choice. A flattering dress would have worked wonders with these lonely soldiers.”

Porthos had no difficulty imagining the woman behaving as a whore to collect information. He was in no mood to joke or made sneaky comments about it.

“The gates are not supposed to be closed. They're never closed.” What had Rochefort done to the others? He could not simply discharge the entire regiment and take over the facilities. Not without proof, and he possessed no evidence so far. Surely, his suspicions would not be enough for the King to decide to close the Garrison. Where _were_ the Musketeers?

“The taverns. Let's round the taverns.” His voice shook a little.

He strode purposely back from where they came from, turning abruptly to the left. Milady hurried to keep up with her companion. His demeanor had changed in the last minutes. His grip on his sword was stronger, his shoulders were tense, and his jaw was clenched. He looked angrier than he usually was whenever in her presence.

Porthos was rethinking his position on not killing anyone. If his brothers-in-arms had been injured, or accused of charges for which they were innocent, he would wreak havoc in Paris. His own safety be damned. Nobody dared touch his family and walk away without being harmed.

They were greeted by a loud raucous as soon as they entered the first tavern Porthos could think of. Despite the late hour, the place was crowded. Milady wrinkled her nose at the smell assaulting her. It was a mixture of sweat, alcohol, blood and urine. The Musketeer stepped in a dark corner at once, hauling her along until they were pressed together.

“Now is not the time, my dear.” He glared down at her jest, not even looking for a clever repartee. His eyes roamed the room, spotting red capes around a large table. They seemed to be having a rather good time. Two of them had their arms around the waist of girls sitting on their lap.

“Flattering dress...” Milady sang to herself. Porthos closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to hide his frustration. She was playing with his nerves.

“All right! What do you suggest?”

“Let me find a dress to borrow and...are you really going to question my actions now? When almost your entire company is unaccounted for?” Porthos had raised an eyebrow at her choice of words. The garment would hardly be borrowed.

“And then I'll go have a merry time with these gentlemen.”

“You were the King's mistress. They all know what you look like. It'll never work.”

“Don't pretend you actually pay _close_ attention to the prostitutes' faces, please.”

“I'll give you that,” he admitted. He might have been ashamed if the hour was not so grave. Her idea was the best they had so far. Reluctantly, he let go of her arm, anxiety seizing his heart when she disappeared outside and he could no longer monitor her moves.

The next minutes were excruciating, but eventually she was back in the tavern, her long hair curled on top of her head, locks falling on her eyes. Porthos did not wish to know how she had acquired the red dress. It was not fitting her at all. Her bosom was spilling out of her loose corset. At least it would redirect the Red Guards' attention from her face.

Milady winked at him. She seemed to be enjoying herself too much. Ever so carefully, the Musketeer followed her, making his way to a seat behind the Red Guards. It was concealed by a wooden pillar, yet close enough for him to eavesdrop on the conversation.

The soldiers disgusted her, with their filthy hands and their sticky fingers they put in places they should not. She had to remind herself why she was doing this. To save the country, yes. Would the country thank her for her sacrifice? It was doubtful. Perhaps Athos would.

Her arrival was greatly noticed, and one of the men did not waste his time pulling her on his lap. It took all her will-power to lean against his chest and not yank his hand away from her breast. He laughed out loud after she had swallowed what was left of his beer, the tankard tumbling on the table. The brew tasted awful.

“What's your name?” His wretched lips kissed her neck.

“Does my name matter?”

“I guess not,” he laughed, his foul breath washing over her face. Her idea might not be so good after all.

“You look like you've had a rough day. Poor you,” Milady said in a cooing voice just as his lips were about to descend on hers. One kiss and she would be sick. However, the sigh he exhaled was worse.

“Today was not a good day to be at the Palace, that's for sure.”

“Oh, really? What happened?”

“I'm not to talk about it. Secrets and all,” he slurred.

“Please,” she whined. Porthos did not know such sounds could come out of her mouth. He watched as she squirmed on his lap, his arm tightening around her waist, keeping her there. “I _love_ gossip. And I could be _very_ generous if you shared with me....”

The tip of her tongue licked the soldier' ear. It repulsed her, but she put the feeling aside, concentrating on drawing a confession.

“Very, very _generous_...”

“The Musketeers Garrison's been closed. That's cause to celebrate.”

“Well, any simpleton must have noticed _that_. This is hardly worth anything.” She drew back, ready to withdraw any attention whatsoever. He was quick to confess more.

“There are warrants on some of their heads. One's even accused of high treason.”

Porthos raised his head at the news.

“Oh yes? Which one?”

“That annoying brat all of you whores are so crazy about. What's his name? Hey!” he exclaimed, slapping one of his friends' arm to have his attention. “Who's the bastard who's slept with the Queen?”

Porthos half-rose from his chair, fingers clutching his sword. They knew. It meant that the King knew. His eyes crossed Milady's. Her grip on the Red Guard's shoulder had tightened, her face was whiter. His took on a similar colour when his worst fear was confirmed.

“Aramis. 'Been stealing all the women in the city, this one. I'll be glad when he's dead and we can finally have our fair share.”

“There, doll. Death warrant for Aramis. What's my reward?”

Porthos was ready to hit something or someone. His ears were ringing with rage, his eyes clouded with murdering thoughts. So engrossed in the aftermath of their discovery, he barely realized that Milady had stood up and was leading her Red Guard to the back of the tavern. He pushed patrons aside, yanking a door open until he was standing in a small alley.

“You're going to tell me everything you know,” he threatened the man that his accomplice had distracted with a kiss. Milady struggled to breathe and spat in an unladylike manner. The Red Guard was pushed against the wall, one hand at his throat, and the tip of Porthos' sword pressed on his left side.

“You whore!” he cursed, but she casually pointed a pistol at him.

“If needs must. Besides, a woman would only consent to sharing your bed if you paid her handsomely. You're a pig.”

“Enough. Tell me what you know. I want to know what happened at the Palace today.”

“I know you....You're always with this Aramis. Ah! They're looking for you as well. It was not very wise to show yourself.”

The soldier opened his mouth, but Porthos was quicker and slammed his fist against his face. Blood poured from his nose. Clasping one hand on the other's lips, the Musketeer leaned closer.

“You've made me extremely angry. I am only going to repeat it once and you better answer my question fully or her bullet is for you. She's one of the best shots in the country. What happened at the Palace?”

His victims' eyes traveled from him to Milady who aimed at his face.

“She's also the most talented assassin in Paris. I thought you should know.”

“He's not going to tell you anything. It's a waste of time.”

“No! No!” The scream of pain was thankfully muffled by Porthos' hand. The shot echoed around them, and the Red Guard slid to the ground, blood flooding from the wound on his leg.

“What? I didn't kill him!” Milady stated when Porthos shot her a dark look.

“He's most certainly going to die from this.”

“Ah well, I cannot be blamed for the weakness of his body, can I? Are you ready to speak now?” she asked in a cold voice, joining Porthos who was on his knees.

The Red Guard was puffing and wincing, his legs jerking on the cobblestones. Porthos' fingers pressed against his throat once more. Then he felt the injured man nod, and slowly took off his hand from his lips.

 


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter XIV

 

Aramis clutched his crucifix in his hand, reciting prayers in his head to keep from dozing off. Athos had gone inside the convent to sleep an hour or so earlier. The countryside was so silent, the only sounds being the wind blowing in the trees and an owl once in a while. His entire body was numb so he was pacing in front of the entrance gate, hat on his head, cape held tight against his chest.

Spring was not supposed to be such a cold season. He usually enjoyed it very much, the blossoming flowers, nature waking up, and warming sun. The nights were always chilly, though. He would give anything to be able to light a fire. Perhaps he could. After all, it was no secret that nuns lived in the convent. He would not be giving their position away since it was well-known.

He was pondering this solution when he heard footsteps behind him. Finally.

“At last. I hope Constance made it worth your while to keep me waiting in the cold. I'm freezing my arse off. ”

“I am deeply sorry to hear that.”

Aramis froze on the spot, but not because of the cold this time.

“Your Majesty! I apologize for such horrendous language!”

“I will assume you were expecting d'Artagnan and forgive you.”

The Musketeer sighed, his shoulders slumping. He turned around when she stopped walking. There was the glow of the lamp hanging by the entrance of the building in her back. She was not wearing her imposing dress. Instead, she had donned a simple white shirt. He knew it was part of the nuns' clothing. She would have almost looked like a simple commoner if she had not been wearing her blue coat to stay warm.

“You've been entirely too forgiving with me today, your Majesty. I don't deserve it.”

“I will be the judge of this. Still, it may have been...unwise to raise your voice, it is true.”

“I'd say foolish is a better word.”

“Perhaps,” she concurred with a small smile. Her hair was down and blowing in her face. She reached over to pull the hood on her head, her eyes never leaving his face. “I can understand why you did it, though. And I absolutely do not think ill of you for your reasons. It only...surprised me.”

“It should not have happened. I forgot myself. However, you were about to make a mistake so....”

“Queens do not make mistakes, Aramis.”

“With respect, I disagree.”

The Queen laughed softly, raising an eyebrow. The gesture made him smile as well. He was doing it again. He was forgetting their respective positions and allowing himself a greater liberty than was proper.

“I apologize. Sometimes, I let my heart rule my mind. It is never a good thing.”

“On the contrary, I find it quite refreshing. I wish I were allowed to do the same.”

“It's dangerous, trust me. Look around us. We would not be here if I could be more responsible.”

He sounded so distressed and it unsettled her so much that she moved forward, reaching out for his hand. But Aramis took a step backward, seeking the shadows, putting distance between them. It broke his heart to do so, especially as he saw how hurt she was.

“It's cold outside. You should go back inside, your Majesty.”

“I seem unable to find sleep, unlike everybody else. Even my son is sleeping peacefully now, God bless him. Some company would be greatly appreciated. My mind keeps going back to Paris and the King.”

A shiver ran down her spine whether from fear or cold, she could not tell. She wrapped her arms around her waist, gathering her warm coat around herself.

“What will happen, Aramis? What will happen if Porthos brings terrible news?”

“Nothing because this is not how events are going to develop. They will be back with excellent news about his Majesty's health. Then we'll move on to exposing Rochefort and the past days will only be a bad memory.”

Queen Anne wished he could be correct. The Musketeer always knew what words to say to bring comfort and put her heart at ease. There were so few occasions for them to speak freely, without an audience and every time, he had made her feel better. If only he could be by her side all day long. It was wrong to entertain this thought, yet it had been her companion ever since his outburst in the afternoon. Her only desire at this very moment was to have him realize he need not withdraw from her.

She was being foolish. She was behaving like a young girl, and not like the Queen of France. She had responsibilities, duties, and no matter how much she wished she could discard them to listen to her heart, it was not meant to happen for her. Never. She was born for duty, not freedom. How she envied Constance.

“What if you're wrong?”

“Then we will avenge the King as any loyal Musketeers would do.”

Aramis saw the Queen nod softly, taking in his words. It was difficult to keep his hands to his sides. It had been torture to reject her touch. His heart bled for it, but it was the right choice. If he kept on clutching the crucifix in the palm of his hand, perhaps it could distract him from her presence. He resumed his prayers to drown the fact that she was standing so close and that he could not do anything about it.

“Aramis?” He gave a start at her hand on his arm. What a guard he made. His mind was conflicted to the point that his hearing was totally ineffective. He should have heard her walk closer. The crucifix fell to the ground. The Queen bent down to retrieve it. Was it really Rochefort who gave it to her all these years ago? She could not remember it. It had become such a feature of Aramis' apparel that it warmed her heart every time she noticed it at Court.

“I did not mean to frighten you.” Her words were soft and her fingers even more so when she pressed the necklace in his hand.

“It is quite fine. I was distracted. My apologies.”

“I would hardly call praying a distraction. You were praying out loud,” she explained, glancing up at him. It had lasted about five minutes and she had not said anything because she thought he was doing it on purpose. She must have been wrong since he looked surprised.

“You were praying in Spanish,” the Queen added. It was the main reason why she had decided to interrupt him. “Our conversation in the infirmary was not pleasant, nevertheless I enjoyed speaking Spanish. It has been years since it was last possible. _Will you speak Spanish with me, Aramis?”_

_“If your Majesty so commands.”_

_“I do not command you. I'm asking you.”_

_“Then I suppose you already have your answer.”_

He was rewarded with a chuckle. A cloud moved in the sky, enabling him to catch a glimpse of her face. She looked genuinely happy. Her life was being turned upside down so he would do whatever was in his power to ease her pain.

The words felt strange on her tongue. She had been shunned from her native language for so long that her voice almost sounded foreign. His on the contrary....It was warm. It was home.

_“It would be exquisite to be able to speak whatever language I wished whenever I wished for it.”_

_“After everything goes back to normal, the King will certainly grant it to you.”_

_“I'll pray that you are right.”_ It was a lie; it would never happen. Louis had never allowed it, and it would not change. If all was well in Paris, which she strongly doubted, he would return to complaining and making her life miserable. She was used to it, she would survive. At least she would be alive.

_“I fear I might never see the King again.”_

The confession felt as if a burden had been lifted from her shoulders. The thought had been gnawing at her heart ever since she had been told that her husband had been poisoned. At first, it had seemed ridiculous and the simple product of her terror upon knowing what Rochefort had done. But it had not lessened throughout the day. It had prevented her from resting. Her mind kept churning with ideas of a regal and royal sanctuary crumbling down around her because the King of France was no more, or that she had irrevocably lost his trust. She had fled, the Dauphin was with her: the entire situation screamed treason of the highest sort. It was not her intention, it had never been so. People would not believe it. They would be too pleased to find faults in her. They hated her; they hated her Spanish origins.

What would become of them, then? Her son was so small, and she had no skills whatsoever. She could not even cook decent food. She could read and write, and appear poised and dignified. It would not carry her far in the world.

_“Now, you are only talking nonsense, your Majesty.”_

_“Please, don't say it. Don't call me this way.”_

Aramis was starting to panic. Sometimes it felt as if they could retain their expected stations, and then there would be words shattering this false hope. Every word they were uttering now was bringing them closer to their doom. It felt as if he was drawn to her, as he had always been the past years. It was late, and despite resting, and being used to uncomfortable situations, there was too much trouble to deal with to behave as the soldier he prided himself to be.

What was a greater source of panic was that he did not mind it. It was wrong, terribly wrong to be glad she had come out to him, even though she did not know it would be him. The Queen had been looking for company and anyone, from Athos to Marguerite, would have welcomed her presence. One could not say no to a distraught monarch. It was just his wretched luck that he was forcing himself to guard the convent more than his friends. It had started as a way to atone to God, but it was turning into quite the opposite.

His treacherous heart rejoiced at being so close to her, without witnesses. And now she was plainly stating that there was no need for protocol between the two of them. Aramis could not give in to this demand. It might lead to more awkward situations, and it was not his intention to act more like a caring lover than a dutiful soldier ever again. How he wanted to, though. The next sentence burnt in his mouth.

_“I cannot. I have to or I dread the consequences.”_

_“I would not mind them.”_

_“You should not speak like this, your Majesty.”_

She exhaled a frustrated sigh at his stubbornness.

_“Tell me. Do you regret it?”_

Aramis could hear Porthos urging him to deny everything had ever happened between him and the Queen. It started by believing it himself. How could he do it? How could he break her heart when she had plainly confessed that she did not regret a single thing? How could he make the right choice when it was such an abomination?

_“Never. But I....I lost someone extremely precious to me the last time we were here.”_

_“I remember.”_

_“I refuse to lose someone else this time. I refuse to take actions which would endanger you or your son further.”_

_“You think more of others than yourself. You and I have this in common. My life does not belong to me, either. It only did so once. Because of you....thanks to you.”_

His entire resolve dissolved when she stopped talking. Hearing her say it in their mother tongue was proof enough that she was sincere, if he still doubted it. She was stepping over every single one of the barriers he had erected to protect them from themselves. Nothing could protect him of her feelings. 

Her fingers were holding on to his leather coat, holding on for dear life. The Queen imagined that if she let go, she would lose herself. The memory of gazing into his dark eyes anchored her down.

Their mouths touched in silence, none of them moving for a few seconds. Then one hand tentatively grazed his cheek, fingers curling around a lock of hair, and Aramis was gone. It was overwhelming: the tension, the euphoria. Everything poured out of him at once. The Musketeer dropped the crucifix, his arms shooting around her body. His lips muffled her cry of surprise until she relaxed, only to press closer. 

A shudder shook her as she felt the warmth of his hands on her back, moving under her coat to rest on her simple clothing. Her heart appreciated the tenderness of his touch. Even though the kiss was frantic and certainly desperate, his actions were painfully slow.

Hands flat on his chest, grabbing leather as she tiptoed. The Musketeer was much taller than she was. Then she twined her hands around his neck, bringing him impossibly closer. Aramis smiled, his beard scrapping her face. It was his turn to shudder as her fingernails glided against his skin. These were sensations he had been dreaming of for months. He groaned awfully loud.

This sound was echoed from the Queen after he had pushed the hood from her head to tangle his fingers in her fair hair. It felt amazing to abandon herself to his care, because she knew he would never let her down, not even as she stumbled against him in her haste. The sound of his laughter broke the silence.

“Perhaps one day we will have the chance to do this when my life is not in danger.”

_If only._ The soldier kissed her mouth sweetly, and for a moment all his worries had disappeared. The woman in his arms was all that mattered. Of course, she had been the only person who mattered to him for a long time, but more so now. They would never have more than precious stolen minutes. 

“This is wrong.”

“Then why does it feel so right? Dare say it does not feel right,” she challenged. Where was the point in denying it? He secured a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Feeling right does not mean it will bring you happiness in the end.”

“It does tonight. Would you deny me some joy after everything I have been enduring? Can't you grant yourself some joy, Aramis?”

It saddened her that his smile did not reach his eyes. He did not draw back when she kissed him again. For once, she was the one offering comfort to a man she cherished more than was acceptable. Never in her life had she had to instigate this kind of comfort. What she shared with the King was a completely different arrangement meant only to provide heirs for the kingdom. There was no love there, no passion, only duty and responsibility.

It was different with Aramis. It was better. It made her feel alive, completely and utterly alive. It kindled a fire in her soul, warming her body up from the inside out. Her fingers tingled. She truly felt as a young girl. Her cold fingers were resting against Aramis' heart and she could feel it pulse in his chest. Both of his hands grabbed her arms, the pressure rougher than anything she had been used to. It was pleasing, and the thought made her tremble.

“Don't,” she whispered as he made to draw away.

“I don't want to...”

“Don't force me to command you.”

“I thought you only  _asked_ tonight.” His chuckle rumbled against her lips, making her smile and shake her head. She realized they had slipped back into English, although their banter was proof that they could be less rigid in this language as well, if they allowed themselves. Queen Anne was bantering with a Musketeer. She was enjoying herself and kissing a man who was not her husband while the country faced dire hours. She could not find it in her heart to be ashamed. 

 


	15. Chapter 15

 Chapter XV

 

The Queen woke up feeling rather content despite having only slept a couple of hours. Memories of Aramis helped her stray away from nightmares. He had been the only thing on her mind. It was strange to allow her feelings to flow freely after so many months when she had to prevent them from showing at Court. They were safe at the convent and she was determined to settle her mind in any way possible.

Keeping her eyes closed a little longer, she breathed deeply, willing her imagination to create other surroundings. Being in the cold building meant that she was in danger, that she was running away. Events would crash down on her soon enough, with the impending return of Porthos and Milady. The Queen could not wait to know what was happening in Paris. The fears she had confessed to Aramis during the night were still very much present. With all that had gone wrong lately, more troubles may yet befall her.

At least she had loyal soldiers to protect her. A wonderful man to turn to, and a great friend. She hoped Constance had been able to rest and recover a little from her injuries. When d'Artagnan had come to relieve Aramis from his watch in the middle of the night, she had inquired about the woman's health. She was still sleeping, he had informed her, and so was Marguerite. Queen Anne envied them both; sleeping did not seem difficult for the ladies. Of course, she did not envy the blows given by Rochefort. The first task she would set herself at upon leaving her small room would be to go to the women.

There was a faint stirring and a soft baby squeak which drew her back to the real world. All her troubles vanished as she sat up, then went to stand by the makeshift crib the nuns had made for the Dauphin. He was wide awake, his hands reaching out of his blanket. He did not have a care in the world; he anchored her down, much like his father did. Both the thought and the smile on her son's face made her smile.

As she rocked the baby in her arms, cradling him close to her chest, feeling his fingers grab the material of her dress, she could almost entertain the idea that she was only a simple woman taking care of her child. There was no one else to witness her display of affection, which had never happened at the Palace. There were always open doors, guards, servants or courtiers. Queen Anne rejoiced in this unusual freedom, enjoying it as much as she could while it was still possible.

“Come in,” she agreed reluctantly. Someone had knocked on the door. It annoyed her to be interrupted. They were only concerned with her safety and well-being. The Dauphin was watching everything around him with wide eyes, exploring, babbling, being a normal baby.

Marguerite was reassured at once. It did not do to stare so openly, but he was her charge and it had been a torment to abandon him to the nuns. Now that she was feeling somewhat better to stand without staggering or fainting, she might be able to resume her duty.

“Your Majesty,” she curtsied awkwardly. Even after resting for almost an entire day, her body bore the consequences of a long ride on horseback. “May I be of any help?”

“Not at the moment, thank you. How are you feeling?”

“I will be fine, do not fret.”

“Is something wrong with your arm?” As focused as she was on her child, the Queen had noticed the governess' arm in a sling. It almost looked like it had been torn from a bed sheet. Marguerite flushed at the question, looking down.

“It appears that I have injured some muscle when I...attacked the First Minister. I am afraid I will not be capable of relieving you of the Dauphin. I am deeply sorry.”

“You need not apologize for this. You have protected people very dear to me and I am sad it has led to this. You should be proud of yourself, not ashamed.”

Queen Anne's voice softened. She could not be angry at people for interrupting quiet, private moments when they were all fighting for her cause. Marguerite had risen beyond her station, putting her own life at risk. It was impressive. She bowed briefly when she saw the Queen smile to accompany her compliment. It pleased her, it warmed her heart, as much as Aramis had done it the previous evening when he had paid her the same compliment.

The sun was rising outside, rays of early light piercing the clouds. Marguerite set the candle she had brought on a small table, then waited for instructions. None came. The Queen was too absorbed in capturing every small gesture of her son in her memory. Pacing the room, she came to a stop by a window, glancing down at the courtyard.

Constance was there, in d'Artagnan's arms, her back pressed to his chest, his head on her shoulder. She was glad her friend had been reunited with the Musketeer. After all she had been through, after losing her husband in such a dreadful manner, she was entitled to some happiness, even in time of danger. And then there were Athos and the Captain, leaning against the wall, eating breakfast from wooden bowls. She understood why they did not join the nuns in the refectory. Soldiers had no business sitting down to share the meal of women devoted to peace and religion.

Aramis was sprawled on the ground, his back against the open entrance gate. He was cleaning a musket. The Queen could not help but laugh as she saw him throw his head back at something one of the others had said, only to have Constance reach down and slap him playfully.

They were friends, all enjoying a rare moment of quiet, and who could blame them for doing so? She wished she could be part of their tight-close family. How much comfort they brought one another in times of need, while she was alone. Her station instructed her to stay away from soldiers and commoners. Staying inside with the Dauphin and his governess would be the proper thing to do. Today, she was tired of behaving properly.

“We will go breathe some fresh air.”

Since her lady could hardly be of any assistance, she had to don her coat by herself after having settled the baby on the bed. It did not bother her to have to care for herself. It highly bothered Marguerite. She felt useless as she followed her Majesty outside.

The soldiers straightened when they noticed they had new company. Constance moved away from her lover, his arms falling helplessly to his sides. Aramis rose to his feet, scolding his features into a mask of deference, but not quick enough for the Queen not to glimpse the shadow of a smile on his face.

“Good morning, your Majesty. Is everything well?”

“Very well, Captain. I decided some fresh air would be nice for my son.” On cue, the Dauphin squealed. Aramis bit the inside of his cheek to stifle the delighted laugh he would have otherwise made. Constance did not have this problem and her smile reverberated on d'Artagnan and the Captain. It warmed the Queen's heart. Her friend did look better, apart from the stitches and the bruises on her face. Her spirits had not dampened.

“I can take care of him if you so wish,” she offered.

“It is not necessary, Constance.”

Aramis had to leave or he swore he could not be held accountable for his future actions. The Queen's hold on the baby strengthened imperceptibly at the mere thought that he could be taken from her. He could see her face glowing with contentment at being the one taking care of the heir on her own. She was speaking out for what she desired. After what had happened last night, he itched to touch her again, to have her in his arms where she fitted so well. If one day he had the chance to hold both her and the child in his embrace, he already knew it would be perfect. Not now, though. Not when others would judge and Marguerite was around.

“Sitting down would be more comfortable then.”

He started towards the building, turning around when Athos stated he would accompany him, bowing to her Majesty. It was only then that Aramis realized he had not done so. It had not even crossed his mind to bow. Given the stern look on his friend's face, it had not gone unnoticed.

“The Queen is wearing your crucifix.” The words were cold and detached. Aramis had been around Athos for too long. Their meaning was plainly understandable. He was not pleased. His friend had hoped it would not show, even as she wore it under her dress. But the Queen's shirt did not hide her throat. He thought he had been the only one seeing the golden chain.

“It belongs to her.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“No more than usual.”

Aramis only had time to shrug once before the other grabbed his coat, pushing him against the wall. Now Athos was angry, and it was plainly visible.

“Listen, we did not come all the way here for you to tarnish the Queen's reputation yet again,” he snarled. “We're all putting our lives on the line for you, Aramis. Show some decency and keep your hands to yourself, once in your life!”

“Calm down, my friend. I did not _tarnish_ anyone's reputation. Well, not more than I've already done. She asked for it. I thought I was not supposed to contradict her anymore.”

“I swear to God....” Aramis bore the angry stare patiently, because he deserved it. He deserved more, he deserved to be kicked and punched, to be hurt.

To be completely honest, Aramis did not see the harm it could do. There was almost no one to hide from at the convent, so it could not bring any harm. Yet, his friend was correct, as always. He could not claim it back, though. She had asked for it as a sign of comfort, and he could never say no to her. Not when his mind was clouded by her kisses.

“It is mistakes like this which have made people aware of what is going on between the two of you. How do you expect the world to believe it is only a rumour? It is fine here because everybody knows but...”

“I am not going to rip it off her neck, Athos. It will remain hers until she decides to give it back. If she ever does. As long as Marguerite does not notice, we will be fine.”

“Who cares if she does? Don't tell me you _still_ have a thing going on with her, too!” Athos hissed, tightening his hold on Aramis' coat. The cold bricks were digging into his back even through the layers of leather. However, his arms were limp on his sides. He would not fight his brother.

“No! I ended it weeks ago! I know you do not think highly of me for how I treat women but I will always be a gentleman.” Athos was staring, not sure if he should believe him or not. “No, I meant that I've wrecked enough lives with this secret. I don't want her to find out if it can be avoided.”

“You do know that...she knows, don't you?”

The shocked look on the Musketeer's face was all it took for Athos to release him.

“Did you tell her?”

“Yes, I often have little chats with the Dauphin's governess to pass the time.” Athos rolled his eyes but the joke did not relieve the tension. “See? You and your foolish mistakes have doomed her as well.”

“But she never said anything!”

Aramis could not comprehend it. They had been so discreet at the Palace. They never talked, they barely looked at each other. He did everything he could to protect the Queen. Every time he would sneak to the nursery, he was with Marguerite, but never with her Majesty. How could the governess have figured it out?

Then, his heart stopped when he remembered the one time he had held the heir and his mother had been in the same room. The day of the solar eclipse after he had delivered them from the room where they were kept hostages. He had been stunned by his injuries, relieved beyond belief that they had not been massacred. Events of that day were barely remembered, but he did recall all the love that had poured from him at being able to touch the baby's face.

How could he have imagined that Marguerite would not realize something was amiss? Aramis had hoped that she had been as shaken as the others, and that she had not paid too much attention to him. He was a fool. If he had not seduced her, she might have remained oblivious. It was his desire to be close to the Dauphin that had led to them becoming lovers. The stupid things he did. He felt like shouting, shouting out of distress, shouting for someone to make him pay, to make him resent his actions.

He pulled away from Athos, only to turn around and hit the wall with his fist. It was fortunate he was wearing his gloves. He did not stop until the pain became unbearable, and it drew tears from his eyes. His friend stood by the side, waiting for him to be done. Athos understood what it was to feel so deeply ashamed you had to punish yourself physically. He had done it in the past. He often did it by drinking so much he passed out. Despite all the fury he could muster against Aramis, he could still be sympathetic.

“I'm afraid she did say something.”

“What do you mean? No....No, she would not do this. Not to the Queen.”

“I'm not sure but there was something strange in her voice when she confessed that she was aware of what you had done. And how did Rochefort learn about it anyway?”

Athos had kept this to himself ever since he had met the three women in the countryside when they were fleeing Paris. He was a man of few words and less expressions. Nevertheless, he was an excellent judge of character and he was able to read any face and detect any emotion. Even if she had been attacked and it had to count for her distressed countenance, there was something else, he was certain of it.

He had been very cautious at the Palace, always shadowing Aramis whenever it was possible. He knew his friend had been careful as well. There had been no looks or requests to stay close to the Queen. How, then, had the First Minister come to uncover their secret?

“We cannot accuse her without proof. We're not Rochefort.”

“I'm not accusing anyone, Aramis. I'm stating the facts.”

“There are none. For all we know, she may be completely innocent.”

“We won't know for sure unless we ask her.”

“I'll do it,” Aramis decided. They had some history together. If Marguerite did know what had transpired between the Queen and the soldier, and she had indeed shared her suspicion with Rochefort, he had to be the one learning it first. Then, they would act accordingly.

Aramis shook his fists, flexing his fingers to ease the pain. There was a good chance he was bleeding inside his gloves. Dragging a hand on his face, he wiped off the cold perspiration that had gathered on his cheeks.

Would his life follow this pattern from now? A few minutes of bliss shattered by a momentous catastrophe? He could not live this way. He would not.

 


	16. Chapter 16

 Chapter XVI

 

Milady stretched in bed. The move made her corset loosen more. The dress she had found during the night to approach the Red Guards was too small for her, but there had been no time to lose. Sleeping in it had not been comfortable especially as the bottom and the skirt were sticky with blood. Finding new garments had not been not their priority.

Clutching the blanket to maintain some decency, she sat up in bed. After she rubbed her eyes, she finally noticed Porthos sitting on the edge of the bed in the room they had rented. He needed to gather his thoughts after everything they had learnt or he would have ransacked the city to enter the Palace. He did not move to acknowledge that she was awake.

“What time is it?”

“I don't know. Not past noon, though.”

“You should have woken me up earlier.”

“What for?” He shrugged. “Just because I could not sleep does not mean you cannot rest. Even you must grow tired at some point.”

“Did you make yourself useful and find me something more practical to wear?”

This time Porthos turned around, glaring.

“I am not your servant. If you had not lost your clothes, you could have changed last night.”

“Well, excuse me for attempting to help you! Didn't we gather some information thanks to _this_?” Milady ruffled the whore dress. A cloud of dust rose from the floor. She coughed.

“Yes, we did. But you'll have to wear it today, I'm afraid.”

The Musketeer shook his head, his hands still trembling from the terrible truth they had uncovered in the dark alley on the other side of town. He did not enjoy killing people who did not deserve it, even if they were Red Guards and the two regiments almost had it engraved in stone that they had to hate one another. This particular soldier had not deserved the end he had met under Milady's fire, but they both knew they could not let him live when they were done extracting information. If Aramis' God was truly a merciful one, He would forgive this mishap.

When he had realized that his attackers were serious about wounding him, the Red Guard had been more than willing to deliver any knowledge he had of Rochefort or the King. The warrants were serious threats, for Porthos, the Captain and his friends. Even Constance was to be arrested and jailed if she was found. The governess and the Dauphin were rumoured to be missing.

It appeared that the First Minister had suffered quite a blow to the head, leaving him furious and more dangerous than ever. His Majesty poisoned and his most loyal counselor assaulted in the same night? The King needed less to believe there was a tremendous conspiracy against France. The Musketeers had been badly viewed by him lately. The Red Guard had smirked when he had explained the decision to close the Garrison and to interrogate all the soldiers in order to unveil those who were privy to the conspiracy. Where they were now, he had no idea.

He did not know what had been decided about the Queen. Rochefort had bellowed accusations about adultery and that the person who could testify had been abducted. The Palace had been shut down, nobody was to enter, courtiers had had to leave and servants were sent home. Only a small Guard remained with the King. Apparently, he was too distraught and ill to sustain any other trouble.

Porthos could not leave the city without knowing more, which was the reason why they had decided to stay longer. He had to make sure all the Musketeers were safe, and that none would be put on trial. The King thought Constance had run away with the heir to the throne. The Red Guard had not given Constance's name directly, but the soldier had understood so much. She was the last one in the nursery with Rochefort when he had been attacked. He had always despised her because of her connection with d'Artagnan and the regiment. It was a godsend for him to accuse her.

Porthos sighed heavily, his head dropping in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. Milady went to stand by the window, shadowing him from the sun.

“Do you still want to enter the Palace?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose you have a plan?”

“Given that you are the one always conspiring, I was hoping you would have one.”

He did not need to see her face to know she was grinning.

“Well now, what a change. Are you sure trusting me is a wise choice?”

“No. But I don't have any other option.”

“I need a new dress.”

He rolled his eyes, standing up to confront her. Her whining about clothing was aggravating.

“What is the matter with you? I'm aware your dress is...well you....everything is....but now is _not_ the time to endlessly complain about it!”

“Yes, it is. I need a dress fit to open the doors of the Palace. I doubt the King will want a cheap whore to entertain him.”

“You're insane.” Porthos shook his head.

Milady was not deterred by the insult. It had become routine for her by now. In the end, Porthos had to agree that even if it was far-fetched, it might work. Constance had given them Rochefort's ring so they would probably have no problem entering the Louvres. At least Milady would not. They would improvise for Porthos. Finding the King would not be difficult. Porthos had no doubt that she would charm her way into the royal bedchamber.

Improvisation would have to suffice for the rest of the plan. It was too dangerous, it was walking straight into the arms of people who wanted Porthos jailed, or worse. Definitely worse. He was not afraid of it. There had been many times when he had been on the edge of perishing in battles or from wounds. Nonetheless, being killed in the Palace while he was attempting to save the Queen and the country was not something he fancied.

He added the pistols and the dagger they had retrieved on the Red Guard before they had stripped him of his uniform to his own weapons. Whoever was to discover the body could not identify him as one of Rochefort's soldiers. Then, Porthos waited impatiently for Milady to return. He was perfectly well aware of how she would acquire a new dress. One worthy of the Louvres corridors could only be taken from a rich lady. However, this time it did not bother him to let her go by herself. He was certain she would return. The reason why she was doing this, going out of her way to battle at their side, was still obscure, though.

It took her hours before she joined him again, wearing a blue dress. Even if Milady looked more like herself and the garment certainly suited her better than the previous one, Porthos could not help but gape in shock.

“What happened to your hair?”

“So you _do_ pay attention to women' faces sometimes,” she ignored the question, mocking him as she had been doing it since they had arrived in Paris. He shut the door of the room behind him, pulling the cape close around him and keeping his head down so his face would not show too much.

“It's...Never mind. Did you _kill_ someone?” he hissed as they stepped out into the busy street. The Palace was not far away, there was little risk someone would spot him before they reached it.

“Not yet. Servants rarely lock the back doors during the day. What was tricky was to choose a nice dress. And then, the lovely lady I robbed had all these mixtures for her hair and I figured that you _might_ be right after all.”

Porthos narrowed his eyes, squinting in the sun. She was parading by his side, the dress flowing elegantly and her walk was so authoritarian people moved aside to clear the path.

“My face is known there. Especially if there is only a small amount of guards. Doesn't the blond fit me?” How could she be so carefree when they could be dead in a few minutes? Even Porthos was on edge while she simply stroked her now fair curls absentmindedly. Yet, she was correct. The Musketeer had no idea what it had taken to accomplish the feat but now that her hair was a completely different shade, and that she was wearing very bright colours on her lips and eyelids, her face had been transformed. It _might_ work.

It _did_ work for her. As she showed herself at a gate, presenting the First Minister's ring and sweetly whispering lies about the King needing to be comforted as he faced so many horrible troubles, the guards only hesitated a few seconds before the gates opened. While she distracted one with a thanking kiss to the cheek, Porthos pounced on the second one. The blow he delivered to the side of the head was enough to incapacitate the guard. Before the other could shout for help, the Musketeer grabbed his face and slammed it into the nearest wall. There was a loud crack, and blood, but he was still breathing as they tied and gagged them up. Hopefully they would not come to their senses too soon.

“You're kind of a brute,” Milady said, stealing pistols and keys.

“At least I didn't kill them.”

They hurried along empty corridors in the servants quarters, footsteps echoing in the unsettling silence. Every door they opened seemed to be cracking incredibly loud. They worked as a perfect team. There was no need to speak to move to cover the other, to check corners or divert their path to other stairs if a guard was noticed, which was not often. The entire Palace was deserted.

The two intruders parted ways near the King's bedchamber. Porthos agreed that he had to let her try in a soft manner to enter the room before anything more drastic could be contemplated. Waiting on the servant landing, right next to the door, he could perfectly hear what was happening inside.

Milady stood taller, opening her coat to reveal the shimmering material of her dress. It bothered her that she had no pistol in case she needed to defend herself. The Musketeer had them all. Her small dagger was hidden by her skirt, though. The same trick used on the guards outside worked on their fellow comrades standing guard for the King.

“What are you doing here? Why did the guards let you in?” the King exclaimed in a high-pitched voice as soon as the door had closed on her. He was lying in bed, in his night clothes, a glass of wine in his hand. The air was stuffy. However, her appearance was enough for him to muster the strength to sit up, looking hard at her. She forced her face into one of concern and utter devotion.

“I heard his Majesty was facing so dire trauma that I could not help but worry about you, Sire. It broke my heart to learn that someone had tried to kill you. How could they? You are so devoted and kind.”

“You speak like any loyal subject should. You may not be chastised for stating the truth. However, you are not to be here, Madame. I've sent you away.”

Milady pouted, stepping closer until she was standing so close to the bed he only had to reach out to touch her. In one swift gesture, the coat fell to the floor, and her hands were playing with her corset.

“Please, forgive my forwardness, your Majesty. You had every right to send me away after I left you alone with this despicable Marmion. I acted on impulse and I deserved your wrath. Perhaps I could redeem myself a little today?” Her voice had taken on a sweet undertone and Porthos smiled in spite of himself as the King rose more fully, certainly interested in what she had to offer.

The laces of the corset were being undone painfully slow.

“What you have to offer had always been tempting. You may retain the idea for later. My heart is not well-disposed at present.”

“There are ways to make it so....”

She did a wonderful job, Porthos had to give it to her. Her seducing voice, how she curled her hair and made it shine in the sunlight, her telling smile and white teeth, one hand resting casually on the bedcover, all of this was done with one single purpose: to make her way into his Majesty's bed and ease confessions in the most pleasuring way possible. The Musketeer was not so glad of his position now. He would not suffer through such a scene, not for anyone. Not even for the sake of the Kingdom.

The King laughed as her fingers played with his own, softly, fingernails racking his skin, moving up his arm with each stroke. Then he grabbed both her wrists and she was flushed against him.

“Indeed I have missed you. The hair is a nice change.”

“I am glad you appreciate it.”

“Has everything taken on the same colour?”

Porthos choked on the shocked gasp he stifled at the words. Who would have imagined Louis XIII could have such language?

“Woud you care to see for yourself?”

The King giggled, letting the woman unlace her corset. She discarded it to floor.

“Perhaps I was hasty in my previous decision and you might be welcome to Court again after all this trouble has passed and I have chosen a new Queen.”

A _new_ Queen? Porthos rose slightly, ready to burst into the bedchamber. Milady's hand stilled slightly, her face remaining a mask of seduction. Her heart had started to pound faster. She might not have to bed his Majesty to gain information.

“Is something wrong with the Queen? Has she been poisoned as well? How awful, Sire!”

“It might actually have been better. No, my sweet. She has vanished from the Palace.”

“Vanished? How distressing to have your wife abducted!”

“Or gone at her own will. It seems that I have been betrayed by the closest people. At least Rochefort is still loyal.”

“He's always been your most devoted servant,” Milady concurred. The King looked lost in his thoughts, too tired to realize he should not tell the woman all of this. He had always acted on impulse with her, almost behaving like a child, used to obtaining everything he wished for. A child sometimes needed to be comforted with words rather than actions, and it was happening in front of her eyes.

“It makes no doubt that he will unravel the entire truth for your Majesty.”

“If what he suspects is indeed true and the Queen has been adulterous, I pray they never find her. Sentencing Musketeers to death is one thing, her on the other hand....”

Porthos tensed even more. Rochefort could not plot this. He could not wish the death of her Majesty.

“Musketeers have always been an hindrance for you,” she whispered, stroking his hand gently. She was rewarded with an arm around her waist. “Does your Majesty plan to have them all dismissed?”

“Absolutely. I would have taken more radical actions, but Rochefort was wiser, as always in grave times. God bless him. There will be no Musketeer regiment from now on. They have become treacherous souls. I should have seen it sooner.”

“Good riddance, then.”

“They've robbed me of everything I held dear. My Queen, my heir. I still desire the heads of the ones responsible.”

“Rightfully so.”

“All these years trusting Tréville, laying my life in their hands. This is not how a monarch should be rewarded.”

“They've always looked suspicious to me,” Milady confessed, looking down and closing her eyes as if ashamed. Actually, it was only to not wince as the King's hand made its way inside her dress. “I never said anything because I did not wish to upset you.”

“You should have. You have more intuition than most of my counselors. How heartbreaking that I cannot make you my Queen. You would not have betrayed me so, and I would not have to sentence Anne to death.”

She was thankful his head was against her bosom so he did not see the dread in her eyes. These confessions would have been sweeter after he had made love to her. Her mind would have been more relaxed.

“Do you have to? Could you not simply pardon her?”

“Wise, intuitive and merciful. You are a gift from the gods, Madame. I wish I could. The people would take me for a fool if I did so. I do not desire her death. Wherever she is, I pray she stays there and never shows her face again. She was my friend.”

Then, he slumped against her, in a fashion not quite befitting a monarch. His shoulders heaved. He was an actual child. Milady forced herself to put her hands on his back. She had said she was bringing comfort, but now they had learnt a lot and she did not want to linger more than was necessary. Holding a crying King in her arms was not part of her plan.

“Rochefort may have misinterpreted facts and the Queen might be innocent after all.”

“If only you could be correct. He has proof. People know of her indiscretions. Don't you understand? I have lost my Queen, and subsequently my son, if he ever was.”

“They will pay for it, then. They've caused you so much anxiety. I would look for them myself if it could help.”

The King laughed at her offer, his head shaking against her body.

“It is hardly your place.”

“I would do anything to assist.”

Breathing deeply, she supposed she _would_ have to bed him. In the months she had spent as his mistress, she had developed skills to pleasure him extremely fast. They would be put to use today. Porthos closed his eyes, wishing the noises coming from the room to stop. Milady would certainly understand that he left without her.

Walking backwards, he retreated from the corridor, shadowing the walls until he was outside. The gates they had entered through were still unguarded. Nobody seemed to have discovered there had been an intrusion. He was thankful for it because after everything he had heard, any opponent would have probably died. The Musketeer – if he could give himself such a title now- needed to unleash his rage on someone, anyone. Preferably on Red Guards.  


	17. Chapter 17

 Chapter XVII

 

Milady wished the King could have already fallen asleep. He was distressed and after sharing his bed once again, it should not have taken him long to close his eyes and leave her in peace. Instead, his head was on her naked breast. He did not appear to be ready to relinquish her. She secretly hoped Porthos had managed to leave unnoticed. He would tease her to no end if he had had to witness what had happened during the last half hour. 

“Where have you been these past months, my dear?”

“At first I only desired to leave Paris because I was so miserable without you. But I am glad I could not bring myself to be so far away from you, Sire. You would not have had today otherwise.”

She rolled her eyes at the lie and the eager nod that followed her statement.

“May I hope you will send for me again soon?”

“It would quite enjoyable indeed. You must not leave the city yet.”

“Your wish is my command, your Majesty. May I dare inquire about a sensitive subject?”

The Kind raised his head, but she was bestowing such gentle and caring eyes upon him, her hand caressing the nape of his neck exactly how he liked it, that he could not refuse her anything.

“Aren't you afraid that the former Musketeers will warn the others that they are to be arrested? Such mad men might return and decide to harm you further.” She shuddered at the thought, more from cold than from fear.

“You are a sweet darling. Although it is true that many subjects seem to entertain the idea of ending my life, they will never succeed. Red Guards are more than capable of protecting me.”

Milady did not share the belief, as she thought of the two soldiers Porthos had hit earlier in the day.

“Besides, all these wretched soldiers are confined in their filthy Garrison until further notice. You see, there is no need to trouble yourself. “

“I am ever so grateful for that, Sire” she sighed happily. The King leaned over to kiss her roughly, before turning around to drink from his glass of wine. Milady took the chance to stand up and put her dress on. Her hands were shaking in spite of herself. She had to desert the grounds before anybody else noticed she was inside the royal bedchamber.

There was a tall mirror on a wall, and her hair looked dreadful. It was in a state of disarray, the products she had used to change its colour were making her head itch. How she despised having to behave herself as a lady in presence of the King. She endured the pain in silence, focusing on her corset.

All of a sudden, the double doors burst open and she was thankful for her years of deceiving people as her face did not betray the sheer anxiety she experienced as Rochefort strode in the room.

“Rochefort! How inappropriate!” the King exclaimed. “I am busy at the moment.”

If he was surprised to see the woman -and he most certainly had to be- he hid it as well as she was doing it. Milady smoothed the front of her dress, bending down to retrieve her coat, her eyes never leaving the First Minister.

“My deepest apologies. I was not aware you had sent for company, Sire.”

“His Majesty is so distraught, he deserved some comfort that not even a loyal counselor like yourself can provide.”

The King laughed, taking it for a jest.

“Isn't she witty, Rochefort? She's been a ray of sunshine in such a cruel time.”

“It is wonderful to see you in good spirits, indeed. Shall I escort Lady de Winter out?”

Milady cursed silently at the suggestion, her blood turning cold when the King assented to it, but not before promising that they would see each other soon. It would not happen if she had a say in it. Today was hopefully the last time she had to use her body for information, and if she managed to escape Rochefort with no harm done, she would probably never step inside the Palace again.

They walked side by side in the empty corridors, the First Minister not even glancing at her once. There was a bandage around his head where he had been hit by Marguerite and added to the eye-patch, he looked more like a rogue than an aristocrat. Milady was on her guard. He was so cold and unpredictable that he unsettled her a little. It was only when they had almost reached a set of doors leading to the outside that he turned around.

As she was prepared, he did not manage to push her against the wall as strongly as he must have hoped. Yet, she was framed between his hands, unable to escape. His blue eyes told her that he would not hesitate to kill her if he had to. Milady held his gaze.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, please. You're framing the Queen and the Musketeers, turning the entire royal household and the country upside down. Do you really think someone like me will not try to derive some advantage from it?”

“You lost this privilege when the King asked you to leave months ago.”

“You may have to rethink this position. I am most certainly sure you will see more of my person very soon.”

“Not on my watch,” Rochefort hissed. Milady raised an eyebrow.

“Excuse me. I was under the assumption that a new Queen had not been chosen yet. I suppose I was mistaken, your Majesty.”

Faster than lightning, there was a hand squeezing her neck, bringing back memories of a few days earlier in his office. Rochefort would not hesitate to go all the way this time. She could see it in his eyes. His face was so close to her, she could feel his breath on her cheeks as he spoke.

“Whatever business you imagined you could draw from the situation, it has sadly come to an end.”

His grip tightened so much she could hardly keep her eyes open. She struggled to fight him off, but the heavy dress was an hindrance and her kicks were ineffective. Her right hand tried to loosen his fingers. It only made him press harder and Milady could not breathe anymore. Desperate, she pushed his face away, finding the eye the Queen had injured. There was a cry of pain. She did not stop until she could bolt free.

Breaking into a run, tears running down her cheeks and choking on difficult breaths, she was not fast enough to distance him. His heavy footsteps echoed on the wooden floors, yanking on her arm as she was about to fling a door open. Her entire arm hurt. Rochefort slapped her so strongly that she almost lost her balance, her head jerking back against the door. Glass shattered at their feet.

“It's not so amusing now, is it?”

Milady was stunned by the blow, her entire vision being a white blur. This man was completely mad. Her right arm stung from shoulder to fingernails. Her mind was not capable of coherent thoughts when she was in desperate need to find a way out. There was the dagger she could feel against her leg. However, as soon as she bent down, his hands were on her again, pushing her to the ground. Glass cracked under her weight.

Even though she was terrified, the feeling that superseded it all was hatred. Hatred for a man who could overpower her so easily while she usually was quicker in her actions and her defense. She had known he would attempt something, she had been prepared for it. Yet, he was the one in control, the one crouching down, one leg on each side of her body, trapping her, preventing her from standing up.

“You could have been rather useful to me. What a shame that we have to part like this.”

“What a shame indeed.”

There seemed to be no pain in her arm as her fingers groped the floor then closed around a sharp shard of glass. There was no hesitation in her gesture. Rochefort screamed painfully loud as it pierced his side. Milady kicked him with all her strength, watching blood stain his shirt. She scrambled to her feet only to have her ankle grabbed.

“Guards! Guards!”

Receiving another kick in the face, the First Minister eventually had to let her go, watching her run outside. Milady ran without looking behind, pushing through the busy Parisian streets, toppling people to the ground, stepping into puddles and mud. Her heart was pounding so fast that she was light-headed. She had to slow down after a while to brace herself against a wall. Her strange behaviour was noticed by the passers-by who gave her quizzical stares as she battled to breathe. She massaged her throat. It felt as if Rochefort's fingers were still choking her.

Milady hoped he was drowning in his own blood. The prospect brought an unexpected smile to her face, which subsequently made her wince in pain. Her arm had to be sprained, her head was ringing, blood pulsing against her temples. She tasted blood on her lips. Curses escaped her, the sound of her own voice sounding distant.

After a few minutes, the woman looked around to see if someone suspicious was approaching. Her escape had led her rather far away from the Palace, but in the opposite direction of the tavern they had found last night. She had to find a way to Porthos. If she did not come back soon, he would obviously believe she had finally decided to betray him. He could not be further from the truth.

Putting her life at risk was acceptable when there seemed to be no alternate lifestyle. She could be careless, heartless, treacherous. After what she had just suffered, Milady was absolutely certain she no longer desired it. What she desired was to be in a safe place, far away from Paris, from Rochefort and from political intrigues. It was not worth it anymore. She would be better leaving her past behind and trying to rekindle whatever future she may be able to have with Athos.

Red Guards would be looking for her so she bent down to take the small dagger in her hand. Her fingers trembled against it. It took her a very long time to find the path to the tavern. To strangers, she must have looked drunk. Milady was aware that she was staggering, tripping on thin air. She was disoriented, but not enough to not lash out as an assailant touched her arm.

“Where have you been?” Porthos hissed, dodging the blade.

They had never discussed what they were do to if they were separated at the Palace. Porthos could not wait nearby for her to join him in case someone sounded the alarm. He had reluctantly gone back to their rented room after he realized that walking in circles in the adjacent streets would most certainly attract attention. Two hours of waiting by himself had been enough to trigger the fear that Milady might have deserted him or that she had been offered something that could not be refused. Once the gnawing thought had crept into his mind, the soldier could not prevent it from clouding everything else.

If such was the case, staying idle would only lead to his hiding spot being found out by Red Guards. So he had gathered his meager belongings, cursing the woman he knew they should not have trusted. Nonetheless, she had helped gather so much information. Porthos' head was swarming with it. He was not a Musketeer anymore. There was no longer a regiment. All his friends were in mortal danger. So was the Queen. It would not be long before search parties were sent out, if it had not already been done. How long then until they decided to investigate at the convent?

Porthos was stepping out of the tavern when he had recognized Milady at the end of the street. So she had not betrayed him. As he looked at her face when she spun around, any anger he might have felt toward the woman dissolved at once. It had never occurred to him that she was missing because there had been a problem.

Milady recognized the voice more than the face. Her arm fell limply to her side, the dagger falling on the cobblestones. How could she have imagined that one day she would be so glad to see him? Porthos barely had the time to extend his arms as she tumbled forward. Her dress was torn at the bottom, her face was bloody, the back of her head was also turning crimson. He steadied her, only for Milady to wince at his firm grasp on her arm.

“What the hell happened to you?”

Now that she was somehow safe, it was a struggle to not slip into unconsciousness. Milady struggled to speak. He had to be warned that there were people chasing her.

“We must leave. They will find us.”

“Who are you talking about? Red Guards?”

She nodded, trying with all her might to stand up by herself. Porthos had never seen her like this, so powerless, so injured that she did not look like the deadly assassin she actually was. Whatever had taken place at the Palace, he would have plenty of time to learn about it later.

Even as he intended to return to the countryside by himself, he was aware it was not very wise to do so in the middle of the afternoon. They did not have a choice, though. Porthos made to put her arm around his shoulders to support her. She groaned.

“Let me go.”

“I doubt you can walk by yourself.”

“I'm sure I can. I don't need assistance.”

She broke free, took a few steps in what she assumed was the correct direction. It did not matter that she was hurt beyond measure, she still had some dignity and it would not be said that a Musketeer who despised her and wished she could be out of their lives had to help her walk. The dizziness was not so bad after all. As soon as she would be on her horse, she could rest. She only had to reach her horse.

Porthos cursed her stubbornness. Even when she had been attacked and beaten, she managed to be annoying. Milady collapsed to the ground a second later and Porthos cursed louder.

“Will you let me help now? We'll never make it to the forest if you persist in ignoring me.”

There was no response. The soldier crouched down, scanning the street to be certain no one was approaching. He made to shake her shoulder yet her eyes were closed. At least fainting would prevent her from complaining about him carrying her in his arms.  


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter XVIII

 

Aramis winced when he took off his gloves. He had not tended to his injuries at once. Her Majesty had been promised a chair to sit on while she was outside so he had brought it to her, Athos following with more so the ladies could be comfortable. His heart had clenched but he could not confront Marguerite so soon after learning of his friend's suspicion. Acting on impulse, when he was so furious at himself, would not have been productive.

He could not stay in the courtyard with them either. The entire scene was too painful. The Queen seemed delighted to converse with Constance, the baby quiet in her arms, the Musketeers seeing to their previous occupation of cleaning weapons and keeping watch. Aramis had gone to the kitchen instead. There would be food for him there, although he was too shaken to swallow anything down. At least he would not stare openly at the governess he had nursed not an hour before.

Her face was still the sad pained mask she had been wearing ever since dismounting from her horse the previous morning. There appeared to be some guilt present as well, and the soldier remembered how she had apologized several times, how mortified she sounded when talking about Rochefort. What would he do if Athos was correct? How could he forgive her? How could he forgive himself from bringing this torment on her?

After trying to sit still on his stool, a bowl in his hand, a nun glancing at him every time he would sigh, he had given up. Focusing on his battered hands would be more productive. His knuckles were raw and bloody. Every time he would flex his fingers, pain shot through them. He deserved it. Aramis was strangely thankful for it. He could not expect to not suffer from his mistakes. Emotional suffering was not enough. The pain could not make him shed tears; there had been more unbearable injuries in the past. It was the thought that he needed to suffer which made his eyes water.

The Musketeer dabbed a wet piece of cloth on the rasped skin to clean it from the drying blood. It would have to be enough. He could not be troubled with bandages. They would render his movements awkward. The cold pressure was a comfort.

“Would you have some milk for the Dauphin?” Marguerite asked, breaking the silence.

“Sister Amélie has gone to milk the cow. I will see if any is available.”

Aramis was busy at the kitchen counter, and he kept his eyes down until the soft footsteps of the nun had receded. Marguerite's breathing was the only sound he could hear even if she was on the other side of the large room. It was oppressing.

“What happened to your hands?”

“A slight misadventure. Nothing serious. How is your wrist?”

“It is difficult to move about with this,” she replied, touching the sling with her valid hand. “But it is a little less painful, I suppose. Thanks to you.”

Marguerite was smiling when Aramis looked up quickly. There was no point in delaying the conversation because it would not make it easier. It would possibly have the opposite effect.

“I have to ask you something,” he eventually said. The governess could not help but hear how reluctant it sounded, which made her uneasy at once. Worry lines creased her forehead.

“What is it?”

“You will have my most heart-felt apologies if I should be proved wrong, but I have to know. Have you told Rochefort anything?”

His words washed over her, leaving her speechless. She balanced herself on a nearby table to remain upright. There were tears in her eyes, betraying her before she had even opened her mouth to explain herself. It looked as if the nightmare she had woken up from was becoming a reality too soon to her liking.

Marguerite regretted everything she had done for Rochefort now that she was far away from Paris and had had time to reflect on it. It may have started as an innocent way to redeem herself and hope that her family would never hear about the Musketeer who had shared her bed when they were not married. It had grown into so much more, so much worse. There were so many dramatic consequences for people more important than she was. People would die because of her, people who were close to her, people who should have had her unvarying loyalty instead of treachery.

The look on Aramis' face was the worst. She could not bear it, so her eyes closed. Even then, though, his fury and disbelief still bore a burning hole in her heart. Something crashed on the floor-tiles. The governess gave a start.

“I'm so sorry, Aramis. I....”

“Why would you do it? Did you so resent me that you had to put the Queen's life at risk? Was it revenge that you wanted? I thought you understood.”

“No, I....I never wanted to endanger anyone only...Rochefort somehow learned about us and...he threatened to tell my father everything! What do you suppose I should have done?”

“Come to me. I would have helped.”

Aramis would have broken something else if he did not fear the wrath of the nuns. They were their guests, it would not do to break jars and plates when they were so needed. His hands were clutching the edge of the kitchen counter, the pain so intense it burned his entire body. Marguerite scoffed at his suggestion, finally opening her eyes to stare at him. She looked guilty, so terribly guilty. He could not quite believe Athos had been right, that the sweet Marguerite he thought could not hurt anyone had associated herself with the First Minister.

“You thought nothing of me. I loved you and you just used me, didn't you? I was more an hindrance in the last weeks than anything else. I would have lost my reputation and you would have done nothing to prevent it.”

“I do not think _nothing_ of you, Marguerite. You were of very agreeable company.”

“I'm just not the Queen, am I right?”

“So you decided that you would reveal what you knew and make her hurt so _you_ could feel better?”

“Of course not! I had no idea what it is Rochefort planned to do. He was talking about ruining my entire life by exposing us unless I helped him. And I never did so happily. You don't believe me, but it's the truth.”

Her voice quivered, tears were flooding down her cheeks, tickling the skin on her chin and down her neck. She was gasping for air, struggling to hold Aramis' gaze. He was so angry at her.

“I would have been left with nothing, only gossips and shame while you would still be your dashing self. I _loved_ you! Not once I thought he would come to such ends, accusing you or the Queen. Never. Please....”

Aramis wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. Rochefort was such a vile person that he might have been capable of what she was telling him. Yet, he was a deceiving being as well. How could the soldier know for sure?

“What tells me that you are not his accomplice even now? Are Red Guards coming down to arrest us soon?”

“How dare you ask such a question?” Marguerite found the strength to shout. “How dare you? You must really think less than nothing of me if you imagine I would endure such a beating to frame you! How dare you?”

The governess staggered under the blow of the accusation. Her face was white, she could feel that she was not going to last long. Her headache was coming back and his words were cutting at her heart. Aramis seemed to realize that he had gone too far. There were sheer astonishment and disbelief in her eyes. He strode to her, gathering her in his arms before she had time to flinch and be more frightened.

Marguerite sank against his chest, her head buried in the layers of leather. One of his hands was in her hair. She did not deserve it, but she had not deserved the harsh accusation either. The soldier was quite ashamed of it himself. Of course he was furious that she had known the truth and betrayed him. But if what she was saying was true, then it sounded like something Rochefort might have been capable of doing: blackmailing her into helping him.

There was another choked gasp, her body fighting off the anxiety. He felt as if he was keeping her together; that she would break apart if he released her. Perhaps the same fate would befall him. He forgot one of her arms was injured as he hugged her fiercely.

“I did not mean it. Of course you would not subject yourself to such violence. I'm sorry.”

“It's my fault. Everything's my fault.”

“No, everything is _my_ fault. None of this is your doing, Marguerite.”

“It is! I....I stole your crucifix and brought it to him. That's how he figured it out. I've forced the Queen to run away, I knew Rochefort had put something in the King's drink and I did not say anything. I......”

“Calm down.”

Aramis willed himself to not react to her confessions, no matter how terrible they were. This poor woman had been wrecked beyond belief because of him. He had hated her for a dreadful couple of minutes, but now that he had to comfort her, it had transformed into self-hatred. Blaming Marguerite may ease his trouble for some time, yet in the end, it would not improve matters.

Rochefort had proved to be mad and he might have uncovered the truth anyway. They were still stuck in the convent until it might be safe to return to Paris, although Aramis knew he would never step into the capital city ever again. Marguerite may have played a part, she was a victim as much as Constance was. Not as innocent, yet still a victim.

“You would all be safely in Paris if I had not been so worried about myself.”

“Now, listen to me. I _am_ angry, I'm not going to lie. The Queen should not be here, she should be at the Palace, where she belongs. And so should the Dauphin. But we will find a way to expose Rochefort and everything will be fine for you as well.”

“He will not go down without taking me with him, you must realize it.”

His hold on her was so strong, her sprained wrist was squashed, but she was not going to complain about it. It felt good to be where she was, to be comforted even if she did not understand why he was doing it. She inelegantly hiccuped as she felt his lips press against the top of her hair.

“We will find a way.”

“Why are so ready to forgive?”

“I haven't forgiven anything yet. On the other hand, I refuse to make more people suffer because of my past actions, and it includes you. I have already destroyed enough of your life. I should have never come to you in the first place.”

“I loved you, Aramis,” she repeated. He sighed. He had played her without thinking of her feelings at the beginning. And then, it was too late to turn around.

“I know. I'm sorry.”

“It's what hurt the most. Realizing that you cared more about the baby than about me.”

Aramis tensed. So she had understood everything.

“Did you tell him that?”

“No. I couldn't. I could not do this to the Queen or to him. What would happen to the baby if they discovered he is not the King's son?”

It was a prospect Aramis did not want to think about. It sent his heart into fits. His hold on Marguerite tightened in panic and he suddenly became aware that he was seeking comfort as much as giving it.

There was a polite cough behind him and he let her go.

“I've brought milk for the Dauphin,” the nun explained, holding it out for the governess to take. Marguerite dried her eyes, breathing deeply to settle her mind. She could not look Aramis in the eye. Her hands trembled so much she could not grab the bowl properly. She watched helplessly as the Musketeer took it, thanking the nun then left the kitchen. He did not look once at her either until they were almost outside in the courtyard.

“I cannot keep it to myself, Marguerite.”

He saw the terror in her eyes. It was a wonder he managed to speak so calmly. Marguerite could not bear it again. The conversation had drained her of what little strength she had left. Instead of following him as he went to join the other, she retreated to the infirmary. Aramis did not try to stop her. There was no telling how the Queen would react to the news and it may be best for the governess to not be present when she would learn about it.

Seeing the Dauphin happily settled in his mother's arms, reaching out his tiny hands and smiling profusely was enough to light Aramis' spirit. He gave the milk to Constance, his eyes crossing Queen Anne's as she stood up to go feed her child in private.

“You were right,” he told Athos bitterly.

“About what?” d'Artagnan asked.

“Marguerite knows and she told Rochefort.” The young Musketeer looked shocked, while Athos merely nodded. Tréville frowned.

“It complicates things.”

“She's distressed. He's been using her as well and God knows I hate it. I resent her so much for it. We wouldn't be here if she had not said anything.”

“We wouldn't be here if you had not slept with the Queen.” Tréville's stern rebuke made Aramis flinch.

“Of course, but....they might still be safe if Marguerite had not helped Rochefort.”

“Well, what's done is done. As long as the Queen and the baby are safe here....”

“She swore she is not helping him anymore and I do believe her on that.”

“Anybody would. She saved Constance and received a few blows herself. Nobody would ally themselves to this mad man after that.”

Athos agreed with d'Artagnan.

“Even if her presence here is not part of a bigger plot, we still need to inform the Queen.”

“That's what I told her. She did not take it very well. She really is distraught that she had to betray her Majesty.”

“We're all traitors here,” Tréville reminded them.

“I doubt it will ease her mind.”

“Whose? The Queen's or Marguerite's?”

“Both. You said it yourself. We're here because of me. I'll tell the Queen.”

The three others stared at him, then at each other, and Athos voiced what they were all thinking.

“We'll come with you.”

Aramis would have preferred to do it alone, because he knew the Queen was bond to be greatly shocked and she would need comfort and reassurance. He believed he could provide it better if they did not have an audience. Yet, he also realize they were right, as always. If he took too many liberties, it would only make the parting and the return to Paris more difficult and bittersweet. So he nodded his acceptance.

“Let her at least have some time with the Dauphin first.”

 


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter XIX

 

The Queen paced the length of her small room, fidgeting with her hands in a manner that was not fit for a monarch. She could hear Aramis talk about Marguerite and Rochefort very clearly, the words resonating in her head even though they had the conversation hours ago. Her heart clenched once more at the dreadful news of how the First Minister had come to unravel the truth. If she could have done so when she was told, she would have cried.

When the Musketeers had come to her it had frightened her deeply. They were all sombre and for a split moment she thought they had been discovered. Even Constance had noticed that something was amiss, especially as d'Artagnan had advised that it might be better for her to take the Dauphin away for a moment while they conversed with her Majesty.

Queen Anne had a headache now. She had retired to her room as soon as Aramis had explained everything because she did not trust her strength. Being by herself was what she had wished for. And she had cried in her room.

There had been tears of sadness, frustration, despair, tiredness, anxiety. So many feelings at once, so many feelings the Queen had managed to retain in her heart the past days. Yet, another betrayal had been revealed to her, as unexpected as Rochefort's, and it was simply too much. Shedding tears had led to sleep, but when she woke up a couple of minutes earlier, her eyelids were still heavy.

Nobody seemed to have come to inquire about her well-being, and she was thankful for the respite. Constance must have been taking care of her son. She did not know if she would let Marguerite resume her position now that light had been cast on her role in the Queen's current predicament.

Her hair felt heavy against the nape of her neck and on her shoulders. There was nothing at her disposal to tie them, and no one to assist her anyway. She was alone, completely and utterly alone. Shunned from Paris, shunned from her own house -if she may refer to the Palace as such. Did a Queen have a place she could call “a house”? Or “a home”? Queen Anne had no home, no residence where she felt absolutely happy. The entire country was supposed to be her home. She longed for a quiet and small space that would be only hers, with no protocol and rules.

The air was stuffy. In spite of the sky turning darker and the sun setting, she opened the window to let some cool air inside. It took her some effort to do so, and she realized she hardly ever opened windows by herself.

A second night at the convent. It made no doubt that the King had been informed of her disappearance. If he was still alive. She said a quick prayer in his favour, then asked forgiveness for all the troubles she had brought on her husband. Sins had been committed, but the worst was that she was not sorry for them. What would the King do? What had he done already, if decisions had been taken?

Aramis used to talk about how they would expose Rochefort. Yet, they did not talk about it anymore. They may be waiting for Porthos to return with news. She dreaded what he could find in the capital city. Her former friend had turned into an insane man, and there was a very high possibility he had shared his suspicions with her husband. Would Louis believe him? With her gone, she already knew the answer to her question.

The Queen shuddered, staring into the distance at open fields and wilderness. Everything was quiet with the sounds of Nature. It was comforting. There were goosebumps on her bare forearms, but she did not mind. Instead, she clutched the crucifix Aramis had put around her neck during the night. It brought her comfort as well. She used to wear it often before gifting it to the Musketeer.

Without thinking about it, her fingers traced the outline of her lips, remembering the kisses they had shared. At least she had a few happy memories to prevent her from drowning in the flood of all the troubles assaulting her.

There was a soft knock on the door. It warmed her heart beyond measure when Aramis stepped in the room. The Queen was tired of acting distant with him so she did not try to stop the smile which illuminated her face.

“You need not,” she instructed as he made to bow. Aramis raised an eyebrow, but knew better than to contradict her. Her smile was the sunshine he sought to ease his mind.

“Would her Majesty care for some food?” He motioned to the plate in his hand. His fingers were raw and she wondered what had happened to him. The offer was tempting and she realized she had not eaten in hours.

“Yes, thank you.”

There was no table in the room so he carefully set the plate on the bed. The Queen sat down, blushing as she saw her bare feet peek from under the hem of the demure dress.

“Will you require anything else?”

“Yes. Stay.” Her voice did not waver, her eyes did not look down from his face. Aramis was too exhausted and troubled to act anything but surprised at the request. It would not do, but they had done so many things which would not do that tonight, he was tired of pretending.

He let the door ajar, walking inside the room to stand by the window. It was awkward to watch her eat in silence. Queen Anne rejoiced in knowing that he had not rejected her, but she was self-conscious to have such an audience to a frugal meal.

“We could share,” she offered.

“I am not hungry. Thank you.”

“Even a trouble mind needs sustenance, Aramis.”

“Today has been quite difficult. I do not think my stomach could sustain anything.”

“I thought alike but it is rather good actually.”

Aramis smiled, content to see that she had quite an appetite.

“Did you rest?”

“A little, yes, but it did no good. It seems that now, every day is bringing more catastrophes and I wish it could only be one extremely long nightmare. If only I could wake up at the Palace in the morning.”

She sighed, looking displeased, her eyes fixed on the wall.

“And at the same time, I am so glad we are here. You and I. And the baby. I know I should not, but Aramis? I wish it could last forever.”

Aramis had to move closer when she turned her head to stare at him. There was so much longing there that he was pulled toward her.

“I feel free when I am here. I cannot ignore the danger, and it terrifies me. Yet, there is a sense of freedom within these walls. I can be a real mother, and I can speak my mind, talk with you, and nobody will judge.”

He winced at this, because his friends were definitely judging, and often expressing their disapproval at the top of their lungs. She noticed.

“Your friends may judge, but they will not shout for treason. They will fight to keep us safe, and for that, I am more than ready to accept their judgment. There have only been fleeting moments in my life when I have been allowed to do what I really wanted, to feel what I really felt, to express what I really felt.”

What was she doing? What was she saying? It sounded like she was pouring her heart out at him, in a way she had never done before. Even during the previous night, there had been caution and arguments. Aramis knew it could bring no joy in the end to let her go on. His heart felt such contentment at her words, and she looked like a young frightened girl that he could not stop her.

“There's something I need to tell you. About Marguerite,” he suddenly decided.

“Didn't you tell me everything this morning?”

“No, I didn't. And I apologize for it, but it is an even more sensitive subject for me and I was a coward.”

“You? Never!” His answer was a sheepish smile.

“Marguerite and I, we used to be....intimate.”

“Oh. I knew that, Aramis.”

“You did?” He sounded astonished. Marguerite had not said anything, and he was certain they had been quite discreet at the Palace.

“Of course. You should have seen the way she looked at you after you rescued her from Marmion's accomplices. It's the same way Constance looks at d'Artagnan. It's....” She stopped herself because she could say more. Her cheeks grew pinker. It had bothered her when she had figured it out. Not because he continued to have liaisons with other women. After all, who was she to tell him who to see and not see? What had bothered her was that he could still be free and content while she had had to go back to her unhappy and dutiful life, waking up each day with a heavy heart.

“But you do not know why I did it and this is the most horrible thing. I've asked forgiveness for it many times, although it might never be granted, and I have to tell you or it will consume me. I wanted to see him. I could not stand to be so close and yet so far, and I've doomed us all because I did not manage to stay away.”

His shoulders slumped, his hands tugging at his hair as he dragged them over his head. His mind had been so clouded with unrequited love and pride that not once he had stopped himself to think of his actions. He did not regret it. He only resented the misfortunes it had befallen on others.

There were soft noises on the floor, cloth ruffling as the Queen stood up and closed the gap between the bed and the Musketeer. Her hands were on his arms, forcing him to stop hiding his face. Once he deigned look at her, she did not let go, her fingers closing on the thin material of his shirt.

“I do not understand, and I hope I never will, the pain of having a child you cannot know.” There was only kindness in her voice, and it reminded him of how she had talked to him the first night they had spent at the convent all the months earlier, when he had touched her in ways a soldier should never touch a monarch.

If the confession was indeed upsetting, there was not much that could still surprise her. He looked so devastated, so angry at himself that voicing her own rebuke seemed impossible.

“I should have stayed away. You would be safe if I had.”

“Or we may not. No one can be certain of anything. Rochefort said he loved me, Aramis. Perhaps he only set his heart on destroying me when I rejected him. It might have nothing to do with you, but it surely gave him a valid occasion to bring me down after I had forsaken him.”

He was trembling. They were standing so close she could feel his legs shaking against her loose dress. Aramis understood she was reassuring him, willing his mind to accept her explanation. She may be right. It did not change the fact that too much of this mess was his doing anyway. Her fingers had started to rub his arms in a soothing motion.

“Your Majesty...”

“I believe I've already mentioned something about _this_...,” she cut him off, her hands gliding up to his neck until she twined them there. His forehead rested against hers. His arms tentatively circled her waist, leaving her time to stop him if she ever wished to do so. She did not.

“The others will wonder where I am.”

“Let them wonder then. I am still the Queen, after all.”

As he was about to make another attempt at talking her out of it, her mouth closed on his. Any word he might have been considering as an escape from his treacherous heart vanished. Her lips were needy and impatient, her fingers grasping his curly hair, bringing him impossibly close. His hands grabbed her dress, roaming her back. Queen Anne could not help but shiver. It may have been cool in the room, he was leaving a trail of flames on her skin, even though he was not properly touching her flesh.

With all her mild strength, she pushed against his shoulders, showing that she wanted to go backwards. There was no point in denying that he desired it as well. Aramis could not think about anything but the woman in his arms who was doing everything in her power to make him feel better.

She fitted so well against him as they stumbled on the bed, the plate of food clattering to the floor. His shirt would be stained with fruit juice.

Aramis pushed the hair that had fallen on her face. Her hands were still gripping his shoulders firmly, as if he would disappear if she let go. The only way he would leave her now would be if someone came to drag him by force. What they were doing was so wrong. She was looking at him with so much trust and care that it made it right. Perhaps it was right in a wrong way. Perhaps it did not matter. Not anymore.

Slowly, never breaking eye-contact, the Queen brought her fingertips to his face, touching his cheeks, the worry lines on his brow, the outline of his beard and his mustache, caressing his eyelids after they had fluttered closed.

“This is what I wish to remember when everything is over. Not the terror or the betrayal. I wish to remember you, and the life I could have.”

The words were uttered before his mind could fully comprehend what his heart was doing.

“My God, I love you so much.”

She looked at him wide-eyed, catching the look of disbelief when his eyes flew open. He was shocked he had dared say it.

“I'm sorry, I....”

“There's nothing to be sorry about. You're one of few people whose love I absolutely do not mind. It is something I've craved from months.”

There was something invigorating about being so bold for once. A Queen could never behave like this. A Queen should never be in bed with a Musketeer either. Not for the second time. Her heart rejoiced at his profession of love. It did not matter that he might have said the same thing to more women than she may imagine. Tonight she _was_ the recipient so she would enjoy her luck as long as she could have it. And him.

Strangely, Aramis did feel better having expressed it out loud. He knew it had been written plainly on his face for the last days, but knowing that she was actually aware of it lifted a small burden from his shoulders. There were so many more to ease, a task she was currently on the right path to handle as she stroked her way down to his chest.

He should have remembered how it felt to have her touch his body. What he did recall was that it had been more hesitant the last time. She welcomed his kiss, pressing closer, her leg battling with her dress to settle on top of his. Aramis could not help but laugh at the groan his lips stifled. Without thinking twice, he grabbed the hem of the dress, riding it up higher on her hips so she was free to move.

Chill air assaulted her bare skin, only to have her thigh warmed up by his hand.

“May I?”

“You may do whatever you want.”

She may be taking advantage of his distress, or seeking relief for herself in such a dire time. One thing was clear for her: she had dreamt and desired for such intimacy to happen again, and now that she could have it, she was not going to relinquish it for anything.

Her leg was thrown carelessly over his, and in one swift move, he was on his back and she was straddling him. She was flushed against his chest, and it was perfect. Her head was buried in the crook of his neck as he kissed her shoulders, pushing the garment as far as he could. He was taking his time, his kisses so lingering that the Queen still felt the ghost of his lips long after they were gone.

It almost seemed as if she had been dead for a year; he was slowly bringing her back to life. She moaned awfully loud. She was not ashamed of it. The King had never made her feel that way. Her heart was pounding so fast, the dress clinging to her skin. There was a fire inside her body that was canceling out the mild late afternoon breeze.

Aramis wanted to be careful. He did not want to press her. He wanted to make it last as long as he could, because this might never happen again. But she seemed to be enjoying it too much, her body crushing his in a painfully good fashion. He gasped when his hands stroked her legs, the feeling making her lean more against him, her mouth seeking his greedily. This was not the Queen he remembered. It was better.

_“I love you, too.”_

The confession was answered with a low growl. The Queen had said it so low, their lips touching, that it had almost been as if the Spanish had passed from her breath to his without breaking, without escaping. Their secret. Never to be heard by anybody else. Their downfall. Their salvation. 

Her dress was ripped in half.

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter XX

 

Constance had not felt so good in a long time. She was happily settled in a chair by a fireplace in the room the Musketeers were given by the nuns after they arrived. The fire was warming her body in a pleasing way, but less than the Dauphin sleeping in her arms. She had always loved the baby, protecting him in spite of her own life. He looked so peaceful, his tiny fingers clutching the blanket and his mouth moving silently as he dreamt.

D'Artagnan was sleeping soundly close by, sprawled on the floor-tiles. His snoring was oddly comforting. He looked so young, nothing compared to the soldier he was supposed to be. Even though they were in a tight spot and Constance could not predict what would happen to them next, she was glad he was with her.

Athos stirred on the other side of the room. He had kept watch all day long, Aramis being too distraught to be trusted with the task, as he kept blaming himself for every single little thing which had gone wrong. His friends partly agreed with it, but it did him no good to bear such a heavy burden. It almost looked like the entire weight of the world was on his shoulders; he could hardly remain focused for more than a few minutes.

At one point after the Queen said she would retire to her room, Aramis had disappeared in the surrounding forest. He could not stay with the others, could not handle the silent stares, even though they did their best not to judge. He had enough self-contempt already. Then, as Athos had gone to rest, his brother-in-arms was in the chapel, a place where he was spending a great amount of time lately, even more than when they were in Paris.

Athos sometimes wished he could have a place of haven like this, where he could confess his problems and attempt to find some relief. The day had been uneventful so there had been plenty of time to think back on his conversation with Milady in the stables. Did he still have feelings for her? Whatever they were, the answer was yes. He only needed to figure out which feeling was the strongest, why he craved to touch her and kiss her again, but was sometimes still appalled by the thought. Athos wished there was wine readily available for him to drown his concern. But he could not protect the Queen if he was intoxicated.

Milady was more than capable of defending herself, especially with Porthos, yet, he could not help but worry that something might go wrong. After the last couple of days, it would not be surprising. He only hoped Porthos would not lose his cool and do something he may regret. He abhorred the woman for all the suffering she had brought on Athos.

As he stretched, his sore muscles ached. Constance turned around when she heard him groan.

“You are aware you will have to hand him back at one point, aren't you?” he mumbled, keeping his voice as low as possible. Baby cries terrified him, and he did not wish to wake the heir in the middle of the night. The woman smiled softly.

“I know. I suppose the Queen will want to have him near in case he needs her.” Constance would love being the Dauphin's governess herself. She had always had a fond spot for babies, and often longed for some of her own. Now that her husband was no more, though, she was glad they had not had children. Her eyes sought d'Artagnan.

“You could use some rest, Constance,” Athos advised when she stood up. There were dark circles under her eyes that even her bruises could not conceal. She had to agree but only did so reluctantly.

“As soon as he will be with his mother.”

They parted ways in the corridor, Constance going up the stairs to the room where her Majesty stayed, Athos heading to the chapel to make sure that Aramis had not drown in self-loathing yet.

The convent was quiet as Constance made her way through the corridors. The baby did not mind the change in motion as he was still sleeping, nestled against her chest. He weighed less than nothing yet she knew she would miss it when he would not be in her arms anymore. She secretly desired for the Queen to be sleeping so that she may have to take care of the child longer.

As she neared the room where her Majesty stayed, it became clear that no one inside was sleeping, although they would certainly not enjoy being disturbed.

There were muffled voices, quick chatter and what sounded like a playful slap. It sounded like somebody swatting someone's head. And then she recognized Aramis' deep chuckle. Constance froze.

Her first thought was that it was a sound she had missed. The Musketeer had not been himself since he had told the others what had happened with the Queen. Her second thought was that he was an idiot. From what she could hear, there was nothing formal or proper happening in the small room. These were the sounds of people much at ease with one another.

_What a fool!_

There they were, all in danger to protect the Queen, and he was endangering her further. Why could he not keep his distance? Why could he not act like a soldier should? If she had not been holding the heir and if it had not been her Majesty with the Musketeer, she would have probably burst through the door and slapped him. It was all he deserved.

She was fuming as she walked back to where she was coming from. It did not please her to have to take care of the Dauphin because his parents could not keep away from one another and were once again putting their lives at risk. Constance was not even ashamed to be angry at the Queen herself. So focused on her thoughts, she almost collided with Athos at the bottom of the stairs.

“Where are you going?”

“Aramis is not in the chapel.” _Of course he isn't._ “And he isn't with the Captain either. Is the Queen alone?”

“......Yes.” Constance decided in a split second that protecting the Queen was more important than blaming her for her actions. But she was too shocked to hide what she had discovered. Her lie was not believed at all; her hesitation making it worse. The Musketeer cursed under his breath.

“I'm going to throw him out of the window.”

“No, you're not!” Constance hissed. “You're not going to go in there and embarrass the Queen as if she was a simple commoner! You may have his hide later, when you are alone. I'll help.”

Athos shot her a dark look, but she was correct. No matter how furious he was at Aramis for disregarding every rule they had set while at the convent, he could not disturb her Majesty. Arguing with his brother-in-arms in her presence would suggest that she was guilty as well. He could not subject her to the shame. Constance's final words brought a grin to his face.

Duty be damned, he needed to have a drink. He was about to make his way to the cellar where he remembered the nuns kept alcohol, when there was a shout from the courtyard.

“They're back!” Breaking into a swift run, he joined Tréville outside, only moments before Porthos rode through the gates. It was close to midnight; there was barely no light except for a couple of lamps by the building doors. The fact that there was only one horse registered before he realized there was somebody in front of Porthos. His heart stopped beating for a second.

Milady was slumped against the soldier, in a fashion completely foreign to her normal behaviour. Something must have gone terribly wrong for her to allow the Musketeer she despised so much to carry her on his mount.

“What happened?” Tréville asked, grabbing the reins to stop the horse from moving around.

“I'm not sure. We were separated at one point and when I found her she was like that. She's barely been conscious since.”

There was a groan as Tréville held her waist to help her down. Her arms battled with Porthos' cape which was clasped around her shoulders, as she made an half-attempt at breaking free. Milady had been living in a haze for the past hours, the motions of the horse causing her excruciating pain, the soldier's right arm pressing against her injured one. Her head had not stopped pounding. It almost felt as if it was about to explode.

“Let me go,” she slurred, swapping at Tréville's hand on her waist. He did not comply. It did not matter that she had wreaked havoc with his Musketeers in the past. Any wounded woman required tending and attention.

“That's the main thing she's been saying to me as well.”

Athos eventually found the strength to snap out of his shock. She looked nothing like the strong and sarcastic woman he had left in the stables the day before. The moment she tripped on a rock making an effort to walk by herself, he knew what were his feelings for her. He cared for her, much more than he had imagined.

“Don't be ridiculous. You cannot stand up straight.”

“I don't need help.”

“We're not asking for your opinion.”

He relieved Tréville of her weight, his own arm sliding effortlessly around her waist. In the faint glow of the lamps, he could discern the dried blood in her hair. There must be a good story to the colour change, but he was more frightened by the gash on her head. As he made to probe it, she jerked away violently, her entire body trembling.

“Don't touch me!”

“It's quite fine. I only want to check your injury.”

There was a pause as she pondered his words. She wanted to raise her head and see who she was talking to. It hurt too much.

“You're not....Athos?”

“Yes, it's me.”

Milady did not mind being helped by him, then. He was the only one she had been looking forward to seeing again. At least with him she would be safe. She stumbled again, her head lurching forward. Someone else steadied her. The grip was firm. She remembered it. It was Porthos.

“I think her arm is sprained,” he explained when she winced at his touch.

“Aramis!” Athos bellowed. The window to the Queen's room was wide open. His words would carry upward. “Aramis! Come down here! We need help! Now! Porthos's back!”

The idiot was smart enough to not show his face at the window. They were in the infirmary when he joined them. Marguerite was prostrated in a corner; he did not even glance at her. One look at Porthos was enough to see that he was well. It was the woman in Athos' arms who required his assistance.

“What happened to her?” His mind was still clouded with memories of the Queen, of touches and promises that he had to shake his head a few times before he could concentrate properly. Athos glared at him once Milady was on a bed. She was putting quite a fight, groaning and muttering that she wanted to be left in peace.

There were bruises on her throat as well as her face. Athos' hand was red from when he had touched her hair.

“I don't really know,” Porthos explained. He had not been able to make her talk a lot on the ride back. He had been focused on escaping unseen and then battling to direct his horse with the woman in front of him who was not always cooperative. Every time she mumbled something, it was about Rochefort and the King or how she wanted to be left alone. He was relieved they were finally back. He was not relieved to know that he would have to deliver terrible news.

“She stayed at the Palace by herself for a couple of hours and....”

“You left her by herself?” Athos snapped. “In the Palace?”

“Well, excuse _me_ , but I had no desire to hear anything that was happening between her and the King!”

“What? What _the hell_ happened in Paris?” Athos actually sounded shocked. Milady moved away from him at the shout. It made her headache worse.

“Stop yelling.” There were warm fingers on her forehead, pushing locks of hair from her eyes, and it was soothing. She could not remember the last time someone had taken care of her. It calmed her down.

“Perhaps we should have this conversation after I am done with her.”

“Listen to the romantic.” It was only a whisper but the four soldiers chuckled. She would certainly be fine in the end.

Athos' fingers were soon replaced by a cold cloth as Aramis crouched by the bed. There was nothing he could do for the bruises, but he cleaned the blood from her hair now that she was somewhat more inclined to be tended to. There were tiny bits of glass in her hair. Busy with his work, he ignored the others' stares and d'Artagnan's questions when he appeared, yawning. It was strange to be caring for Milady, but it was even more strange to see her in such a position.

Aramis raised a quizzical eyebrow after she had sought Athos' hand and he had not rejected her. His friend glared right back.

“You are in no position to judge.”

Aramis decided not to worry about the implication behind the words. Did Athos know where he had spent the last hours?

“Who did this to you?” he asked in a soft voice, focusing on his patient instead.

“I believe it was Rochefort,” Porthos answered for her. A weak nod from Milady confirmed it. Athos' grip on her hand tightened. It did not matter what had prompted the violence, he was going to kill the man if they ever came face to face again. Although he may have to battle with d'Artagnan for the right to do so.

Marguerite hiccuped in her corner. She wanted to die from the shame. Somebody else had been harmed because of her. Porthos glimpsed at her.

“What's wrong with her?”

“She's the one who told Rochefort about the Queen and I. Leave her alone, she's had enough already.” Aramis instructed after the other had clenched his fists in response to the news. “Breathe, Marguerite or you are going to faint.”

“It's my fault!” There were more hiccups and then she fell silent, her eyes growing wide as she noticed the Queen standing in the doorway. The governess braced herself against the wall to stand up.

“You've blamed yourself enough, Marguerite. What's happening in the result of many faults. Mine included.”

The soldiers all bowed at her entrance, Athos kneeling back down afterwards. All but Aramis who had a very difficult time not smiling broadly at the sound of her voice. He kept on tying a bandage around Milady's head to distract himself. Porthos' heart heaved at the thought that the woman they all respected so much was not Queen anymore, and she did not even know it.

Then, he made a face as he recognized Aramis' crucifix hanging around her neck in plain sight for everyone to witness. Something was different, something had changed since he had gone back to Paris. He narrowed his eyes at his best friend.

Queen Anne took in the scene, relieved to see that Porthos had come back safe and well. How ever strongly she despised the woman who had shared the King's bed, she could not help but wince at her injuries. The First Minister was truly a monster. It was not how she had hoped the evening would unfold.

She would have been more than content to spend hours in bed with Aramis, talking as if nobody else in the world existed. Her mind swirled with glowing feelings, and it was complicated to focus on anything else, even on news from the Palace. She should have dreaded the tale they were about to hear, but her fingers were still warm from Aramis' skin, from the feel of his hair against them. Every single part of her body tingled from the pressure of his lips, and it was sufficient to not scold Marguerite further more tonight.

Private time with the Musketeer had made her more magnanimous. She was not ready to completely forgive the governess yet she meant what she had just told her. It not only Marguerite's fault. It had all started because she had wanted to comfort Aramis from Sister Hélène's death, and she had been desperate for comfort herself. Everything had ensued from this.

Constance saw how the Queen's eyes were fixed on Aramis as he worked around Milady, giving her something to drink so she could fall asleep more quickly. Whatever had been happening in her Majesty's room, it had been so powerful that it made the monarch act differently, with less caution than usual.

“Shall I go and put the Dauphin to bed, your Majesty?” It was her duty to save the Queen from embarrassment if she was to stare for too long.

The Queen adverted her gaze, one hand smoothing the thin hair on her son's head, still asleep in her friend's arms. Her room was in an untidy state. There was food all over the floor, and the bed was not as neatly made as it should have been. Where had they put the white dress Aramis had torn apart?

The baby would be better in his crib, though.

“Yes, please. Now, Porthos. Tell me what you've learned,” she commanded as soon as Constance had left.

“We should sit down.”

 


	21. Chapter 21

 Chapter XXI

 

Porthos watched as the Queen attempted to sit calmly at the table around which they had gathered. Milady was sleeping in the infirmary, Marguerite had reluctantly come with them because she was involved no matter how much she did not want to be. D'Artagnan was standing behind Constance's chair, hands on her shoulders. Aramis was pacing restlessly. Everybody was looking at Porthos.

“We're not Musketeers anymore.” It was the least upsetting news for the Queen, even though it had rocked his own world. Tréville's shout echoed in the room. 

“What?”

“They've closed the Garrison after Rochefort shared his suspicion with the King. I don't know where the others are. Perhaps she knows, we'll have to ask her when she wakes up.”

“What does the King know exactly?”

“He seemed to be aware of quite a lot, unfortunately. There are warrants for all of us, you included Constance. You're accused of having abducted the Dauphin.”

d'Artagnan felt her shoulders tense in the same fashion as his did. The young Musketeer did not care if his life was in danger, it had been many times in the past. The woman he loved was innocent, though.

“What type of warrant?”

“You're to be arrested if found. I don't know for us. I suppose arrest warrants and probably death ones. Aramis's accused of high treason.”

The Queen shuddered at the news. Rochefort must have told her husband everything, and everything had been believed. It was beyond understanding. How could Louis trust his First Minister more than his own wife? They had been married for years, they had spent countless moments together. She thought they had grown close, even if they were not in love.

Aramis bore the accusation in silence. It was to be expected. He briefly glanced at the Queen, sitting at the head of the table, distressed and shocked.

“I will have to go back to Paris with the Dauphin, then. The King will see that we are well and the accusations will be forgotten.” Her voice shook despite her resolution. Returning to the capital city was the right course of action to attempt to save as many people as she could. It terrified her. She would be judged, she would be shamed.

“With all due respect, you cannot,” Porthos said, preventing Aramis from objecting her decision.

“Why couldn't I? I'm the Queen, if I stand against Rochefort, the King will have to at least listen to me.”

“His Majesty seemed to completely trust him. He's even convinced that the Dauphin is not his son. You're....You cannot go back to Paris.”

It was difficult, so difficult. Explaining that his best friend was to be executed if arrested was one thing. Aramis had been aware of what consequence his actions would bring. Telling the Queen that her husband had totally shunned her was another. How could he say it? The room was eerily silent as everybody was waiting for him to continue.

“The King's repudiated you. You're not Queen anymore.”

The words echoed around her. They rang in her ears. Her heart stopped beating for a few seconds. Her vision turned brightly white then dark. Her entire life appeared in front of her eyes, flashes of memories, flashes of a life that was no longer hers. Her hands gripped the material of her dress, desperately looking for something to hang on to.

He had to be mistaken. He must have misheard something. It must only be a silly rumour. All of a sudden, she was sobered from the haze in which Aramis had left her. Her whole existence could not come crumbling down. Her husband could not do this. He could not give her up so quickly, so easily. He could not forget everything they had gone through together. She felt dizzy.

Things crashed to the floor, plates and glasses as Aramis unleashed his anger on the furniture. She started. Everybody was looking at her. Marguerite was sobbing, both hands on her face, her sprained wrist forgotten. Porthos looked ashamed as if he had been the one taking the decision. Athos sounded like the voice of reason.

“The decision will be reversed, your Majesty. I have Rochefort's seal and if we make contact with Vargas as we have planned, he will be exposed. Any edict signed under his influence will be overruled.”

“Exactly. I'll go.”

“I'll come with you,” d'Artagnan offered Aramis before Athos disagreed.

“It might be better if only one person goes. Less suspicious.”

“Just me then. You have to take care of Constance,” Aramis added as his friend was about to protest. She thanked him silently. He went to stand by the window to gather his thoughts and try to calm down. His entire body was trembling with fury. The soldier wanted to hurt Rochefort as much as he had hurt the women. If it led to his death, then it would only be a happy collateral damage.

“How do you suggest we find him?”

“I've stolen some letters from Rochefort's office. We only have to counterfeit his writing and Vargas will not suspect a thing.”

“Can _you_ forge a letter?”

“Can you?”

“Not with these hands.” Aramis showed him his raw knuckles. They still hurt a lot especially as he was not taking very good care of them.

“We'll each have to try, then. Besides, the nuns must copy the Holy Scriptures. They may be able to help.”

“And where do you suppose we will find Vargas?” Tréville asked. He had been too shocked by the news that the Musketeer regiment had been entirely dismissed to speak. Even though he was not their Captain anymore, he worried about his men. None of this was their fault so they should not have had to lose their commission. It was unfair.

“It is highly probable that Rochefort might have informed him of how unruly the royal household was at the moment. I doubt he will be far away from the border. Aramis can charm his way anywhere. He'll have no trouble finding him.”

“No.”

The Queen finally spoke up. Their conversation was fast and determined and it had taken her some time to find the vigor to say what she wanted. Everybody turned toward her at the simple word. She did her best to stand up without trembling. Her legs buckled so she braced herself on the table, her eyes sweeping each of her companions, each of the persons her decisions had endangered, each of the persons who had been hurt because of her.

“Your Majesty.....Athos' plan could quite work.”

“I assure you, Captain Tréville is correct. It is the only way for you to return to Paris safely.”

“I said _no_. You've been fighting for me for so long. Look at how many of you have been injured doing so. Constance, Marguerite, even Lady de Winter.”

“It's our duty, your Majesty.”

“I know, Athos, and I will forever be grateful for your devotion. But it appears that it is no longer required.”

“Of course it is! What are you trying to say?” Aramis turned around sharply, his eyes burning as they settled on her frail figure. Even from behind, he could notice how her head was held less straight than usual. The blow of the terrible news about her status had made her shoulders slump a little.

“I refuse to have more people suffer and put their lives in danger because of me.”

“Do we have another choice? Rochefort has to be destroyed or else....” The threat could not be spoken out loud. He could not understand what she was doing, declining the help they were so ready to provide. It might feel good to know she was worrying about them, about him, but it was their duty as Musk.....,as soldiers.

_“I'm tired.”_

_“It's a lot to take in, I am aware. You should go rest.”_

_“No, Aramis. I am tired of all of this.”_ Her eyes closed in order to trap the tears behind her eyelids. _“I'm tired of lying, tired of wondering what everybody will think of my every action. I'm tired of everything.”_

_“What....Ana?”_

_“I'm tired of being the Queen.”_ She laughed as she realized this wish had at least been granted. With every word she whispered, the Spanish flowing in the room, her heart felt both lighter and heavier. Lighter because one more secret was revealed, and heavier because it meant that the future was more unknown than ever.

There was a hand on her arm and he moved her body effortlessly so she could face him. None of the others reacted to the gesture. The only sounds she could hear were Marguerite's quiet sobbing and her own heavy breathing.

“You cannot say this.”

“Yes, I can. I just did.”

She opened her eyes to gaze into his dark ones. He was astonished at the revelation, his hands clutching her arms so strongly he had to remind himself he could not hurt her. Loosening his grip, his hands traveled up to her shoulders, settling there and shaking her a little.

“You are distressed. It will pass.”

“No, it won't. It was merely a dream a few hours ago, was it not?”

His memory returned to the conversation they had had in her room, while she was playing with his golden chain and he was rubbing her naked back. She had been glowing with happiness and she had confessed the life she sometimes wished she could have.

A life like Constance used to have, albeit without the unloving husband. A life where she could be free to do whatever she wanted, to dress however she wanted, to speak whenever she desired it. A life where she would not have the entire country looking at her. A life where the problems of the kingdom would not be put on her shoulders whenever the weight was too much to bear for the King. A life where she could be free to love whoever she wanted, much like Aramis was doing.

It had sounded like a beautiful utopia to him. The Queen of France, Anne of Austria, born and bred a princess, wed to a French heir to bind two countries. A political alliance. No love, no affection, only duty and stiffness. He could understand why she would entertain such thoughts especially after laying with a soldier, an act she should have never even considered.

Aramis could understand the desire for freedom. He wished he could be free to love her publicly. He wished what they had done was not treason. He wished the Dauphin could officially be his son. Yet, he knew he was bound to always desire the things he could not have. Despite everything that Queen Anne wanted, she had a privileged life, one she appeared to cherish. She was the embodiment of duty, of benevolence, of mercy.

He had let her go on with her fantasy, painting a life where there were no balls, no heavy gowns, no complicated hair styles. Only cotton dresses, walks in the countryside and evenings by the fireplace. A life where people would not bow or think about their every word to attempt to gain some favour from her. A life where people would call her “Anne.”

“I don't understand.”

“I think you do.”

“You cannot....”

 _“Don't you love me?”_ He sighed. He should have never said it. It was no secret but actually saying these exact words seemed to have trigger some changes in her Majesty, and he was not supposed to rejoice so much at them.

_“You know I do. But I will not be responsible for this. You would never be safe again. Think about the Dauphin.”_

_“I can only assume that's not his title anymore either.”_

Aramis raised both eyebrows. He had to be dreaming. Very soon, he would wake up in the Queen's room, Porthos and Milady would not have returned yet, and none of this would have taken place. His heart only demanded for him to access to her unspoken desired. His mind was shouting at him to keep convincing her otherwise. What she wanted was not a life somebody could desire.

_“Think of your son.”_

_“He's yours as well.”_

Aramis let go of her to groan, a hand tucking at his hair.

She felt empty without him close. They had been so intimate in the past hours that she craved his presence more with every passing minute. Her affection had been revealed when she had said she loved him, and now that the words were out, it was the only thing that mattered, because it would be impossible to go back to being oblivious.

_“No.”_

_“No?”_

_“He's...he's_ your _son. He's a prince. He's....”_

“Will you stop talking nonsense?” She was so annoyed at his stubbornness that the French had taken over to chastise him. All the others looked surprised. Constance had stood up and was safely in d'Artagnan's arms. Athos was pondering whether he should make Aramis snap out of it. His friend was not having a conversation with a monarch but with a lover, and it was highly inappropriate. Especially with an audience.

“Is it talking nonsense to try to protect you?”

“When you say such foolish things, yes it is!”

“That's because they're true!”

“Is that so? Then please send a letter to the Pope as well, because I think we've found the new Virgin Mary!”

Her words left him speechless. Porthos had no idea what they were talking about, but he had to laugh at the Queen's jest. Who knew she could make jokes? It did not relieve the tension.

“You know what I mean...,” Aramis managed to say when he had recovered. He had hardly ever seen her so angry. And never at him.

“No, I don't! I was under the assumption you wanted this! You wanted him. Have you been lying?” She gestured angrily, her attitude so unlike what he was used to, her tone so provoking that he did not know what to make of it. The Queen was so shaken by Porthos' tale that it did not matter whether she was behaving in a fashion improper for her station.

“No, I haven't. And look at what it's brought down on you. I will do everything in my power to right your life.”

“What if I do not wish for you to right it this way?”

“I will not allow it, then. Because you are the one talking nonsense now.”

The conversation had taken an unexpected turn, and she was not the only one the last hours had troubled. His mind could not fully comprehend that he was not talking to the simple young girl he had loved in the small room. They were not alone here, his friends were glaring at him, even though he did his best to ignore them. He was taking too much liberty.

Then something nobody expected happened. The Queen seemed to have regained all her regal countenance. She took a few short steps toward the soldier who was confronting her, looked him straight in the eye, and slapped him.

Constance gasped, Porthos stood up, ready to secure Aramis if he reacted badly. Marguerite was crying harder, Athos only shook his head and Tréville glared at his soldier.

Aramis simply stood still, waiting for more. He was defying her so openly that he deserved the slap. It was surprising coming from her who was usually so composed. She looked more shocked than anybody body else. She turned around and left the room swiftly, never letting time for the others to show their respect.

“What was all of this about?” Tréville's booming voice broke the awkward silence. Aramis was rubbing his cheek. Constance wondered if she should go after her Majesty. One nod from him told her to do so. D'Artagnan let her go reluctantly.

“She does not want us to try and find Vargas.”

“I think we understood that much. Why?”

“It appears that....she's grown tired of being the Queen.”

“She cannot be serious!” d'Artagnan exclaimed.

“That's what I've been trying to tell her.” And it was breaking his heart to do so. What she wished for was a thought he would like to entertain himself. It would not do. It would be too dangerous. He was considered a traitor, perhaps she was as well. They had to find the Spanish spymaster and erase all of Rochefort's wrong doings.

“I wonder what prompted such a change of heart,” Athos muttered, staring so hard at his friend that Aramis winced. “Why don't you tell them what you've been up to tonight?”

“Weren't you sleeping?” Tréville shouted, his appearance much like the one of a scolding father.

“If he was, he certainly wasn't by himself.”

“How dare you? You may well say whatever you want about me, but you cannot make such assumptions about _her_!”

“Oh, I apologize. Am I wrong then?” Athos asked sarcastically. He was so done with Aramis' troubled life and inability to make the good decisions when they had to be made. The other's silence was enough of an answer.

“Are you....” Porthos yelled, striding toward his best friend, shaking him roughly. “I could have died a dozen times today. I could have died to protect you and this is how you thank me?”

He could not believe Aramis was _so_ stupid. What was the point of risking their lives if he did not stop seeking the Queen? Was it the reason why she did not want them to look for Vargas? Because she was too dazzled to think straight as well? Porthos felt so much hatred at the other soldier that it had to unleash in some way.

Aramis' head reeled back under Porthos' fist. He was stunned, blood dripping from his nose. He did not cower to avoid the second blow. It was Athos who ended it.

“Enough, Porthos.”

He was seething as he let his arm fall back. Aramis did not wipe the blood. He was ashamed of what he had just realized.

“I'm sorry, Porthos. I truly am. I'll leave as soon as the letter is forged. I will find Vargas. I will bring him back so you may take him to the King and you will never see me again.”

“Don't be ridiculous. We will all return to Paris and I'll make sure the others keep you on a leash so you may never come close to the Queen ever again.”

Tréville sounded so serious that Porthos actually managed to smirk. Aramis only looked more hopeless.

“Whatever happens here will stay here and you will spend so much time in the stables you will grow to love it.”

This time it was d'Artagnan who chuckled.

“Speaking of here....I am not entirely certain of it, but remaining in the convent for too long could prove dangerous.”

“Is it official? About the Queen?”

“The first Red Guard we talked to yesterday mentioned that it was all a secret but now, I am not so sure.”

“We'll be more vigilant tonight and we will discus another refuge tomorrow,” Tréville decided. From what had transpired with the Queen, he already knew she would not be pleased, but there had been too many strong emotions for now. It was better to let her rest and settle her mind before attempting to make more decisions.

“I'll go and keep watch.”

“I'll come with you.”

Aramis did not look behind as he heard d'Artagnan follow him. He was aware that he would never have a moment by himself now as long as he was in the convent. Somewhat, he was grateful for it. He needed protection from his own wretched heart.  


	22. Chapter 22

 Chapter XXII

 

Athos stood still while Porthos was still fuming. At least Aramis seemed to realize he had made yet another mistake by spending time with her Majesty. Although Athos was not completely sure of what had happened, and he was not particularly fond of knowing the specifics, it had shaken the Queen too much. She could not actually think that it was fine for the King to repudiate her and that she could create a new life for herself. What kind of life would it be?

Porthos toppled a chair to the floor, his anger needing to be evacuated in some way. He was exhausted himself, from his adventure in Paris, from his sleepless night, and from Aramis' stupidity. If he was honest, he was also angry at the Queen herself. Aramis was not the only one to blame. It took two people to sleep together. Only usually, it did not endanger the entire kingdom.

The rattle made Marguerite start from her crouched position on the table. She winced loudly as the move awakened the stabbing pain in her wrist. The three soldiers looked at her, who had been so silent during the whole exchange if not for her cries.

“You should try to sleep, Marguerite,” Athos muttered. “It's been a long day for all of us.” She nodded weakly, but she was not certain she would manage it. Tréville steadied her as she wobbled once she was on her feet. There was so much sorrow and shame in her eyes that he felt sorry for her.

“I know you think none of this would have happened if you had not said anything. Don't beat yourself up for it. Rochefort would have found some other way to achieve his design, or he would have uncovered the truth at one point. You're not the only one responsible. Far from it.”

It was the longest she had been spoken to ever since she had confessed her treason to Aramis in the morning. She could not help but sob louder because it was comforting in an odd way. The older man was correct, and she knew it, deep in her heart. It felt wonderful to hear others acknowledge it as well.

“You should rest as well, Porthos,” Tréville advised after she had left them alone.

“Yeah. It's been a long couple of days.”

“Are you certain of your information?”

“Most of it came from the King himself, so yes.”

“How did you even manage to approach the King?” The older man did not question the soldier's abilities or Milady's deceptive nature, but it sounded like quite an incredible accomplishment. Porthos glanced at Athos before answering.

“It was her idea. Well, most of the information we gathered was thanks to her, actually,” he conceded. “She used to be his mistress after all. He was more than willing to share secrets of state with her. How Rochefort found out she was with the King and what led to him attacking her, I have no explanation,though. I was long gone by that time.”

Porthos scrunched his face in disgust at the thought that he had almost seen too much of his Majesty and the woman in bed. Tréville shared the feeling. Athos was much more unsettled by the new development. Had she really decided to put herself in such danger to uncover the truth? He was bewildered by her change of heart. Sacrificing her body for his friend, for the Queen, it was unlike her. It was unlike the woman he thought she had become.

On his way outside to join Aramis and d'Artagnan, he stopped at the entrance of the infirmary. Marguerite was kneeling by her bed, praying fervently. Milady was sleeping from the drug Aramis had given her earlier. The blond hair left him wondering. It did not suit her at all. Why should he care? Although he was deeply troubled by the Queen's precarious situation and hopeless dreams, he worried more about Milady.

What if she had not succeeded in escaping Rochefort? What had she done to escape him? There were so many questions yet unanswered and feelings which had been foreign to his heart for so long that he was as light-headed as most of his companions.

There was not a sound as he stepped in the dark courtyard. The two other soldiers were standing only a few feet apart, but they were clearly ignoring each other. Athos stood in the middle for a couple of minutes until Aramis eventually acknowledged his presence.

“I never wanted to make Porthos think his life or the risks he was taking were pointless.”

“I know. And I'm sure he does, too. I would have pounded some sense into you if he had not done so already. Just so that you are aware.”

Aramis shook his head, probing his sore cheek and probably broken nose. Porthos was known for the terrible strength of his fists, even though it was the first time his best friend had been on the receiving end. It was difficult to imagine that only two hours ago, he was feeling as if nothing was wrong in the world, happily settled with the Queen in his arms.

There was light in the Queen's room as he turned around to check. The window was now closed. Despite knowing that it would complicate matters to no end, he yearned to go to her and discuss things. He was appalled by the King's decision, none of them had imagined something like this would occur. It had infuriated him, but it seemed that it had a completely different effect on her Majesty.

Aramis would have to apologize for raising his voice yet again. She would certainly be ashamed of the thoughts she had entertained in her distress after she had had some time to sleep on it. He hoped so. He hoped Constance could reassure her.

“There is hardly any point in being three here,” Athos mumbled after a while. It was too dark to see anything, and so quiet that they would hear riders approach many miles before they reached the gates. He found that he would feel better if he could watch over Milady.

“I told you, I can stay by myself. You don't deserve to deprive yourself of sleep because of me.”

Athos cocked his head, the movement noticed. D'Artagnan was not going to go back inside while Constance was not close by, and he was not going to disturb the Queen. He did not move either. Sullen, Aramis dropped his head, clutching his cape and leaning against the wooden gate.

They did not speak another word until the candle was blown out in the Queen's room. The youngest soldier took it as his cue to go and find Constance. She would not stay with her Majesty the entire night.

“Do you love her?” Athos raised his head at the question. Aramis' voice was hoarse, from hours of silence. It was unusual for them, and the soldier realized that it would not do if women came into their midst and shattered their friendship.

“Who?”

“You know who.” Athos took his time to answer the question, mainly because it was not clear for him either.

“I don't know. I'm not sure. Perhaps. And then at times, I hate her so much. But you saw how she came back. I can't act unconcerned when she's so vulnerable.”

“I noticed. That's why I'm asking.” Then, he chuckled, shaking his head. “Milady, vulnerable. The two words don't go together, do they?”

“No more than the _Queen_ slapping you.”

Aramis thought he had dreamt the low chuckle following this statement.

“We're wrecking their lives as much as they are wrecking ours, aren't we?”

“I'm afraid so. Sometimes, I think women are just making my life too complicated.”

“Isn't it why you drown your problems in wine?”

Athos scoffed, crossing his arms. He had forgotten he was craving alcohol.

“It is quite efficient...most of the time.”

“But not when she keeps surprising you by her actions and make you re-think your position, am I right?”

Aramis had always been a good judge of character. They had known each other for so long but Athos was sometimes still surprised that his reactions could be understood so easily.

“What will you do when everything is back to normal?” He kept asking when Athos did not answer the previous question. He refused to think that finding Vargas would fail and that the Queen would not be able to take her rightful place again.

“I don't have the slightest idea. Will you really come back with us?”

Aramis sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. _No._

“Am I so obvious?”

“I'd hate to see you leave, Aramis. But I do think it would be better if you took some actual distance from everything. It would help her get some closure more easily.”

“I'm aware. I meant what I said.”

Athos did not need to see the other's face to know that he was pained by the realisation. If the Garrison ever opened its gates once more, it would be oddly lonely without his friend. He had almost never known the regiment without Aramis as a part of it, and letting him leave would break their hearts. At least it would mean he was still alive, which was a small comfort.

There were footsteps behind them and they both straightened, withholding their conversation. For a second, Aramis hoped it would be the Queen coming to him as she had done so the previous night. He could not choose between sadness and relief when he realized it was Marguerite.

“Lady de Winter is awake. She's been asking for you.”

Athos glanced at Aramis, unsure whether he could be trusted to remain by himself. The governess was with him, though. He would not leave her alone.

Milady was attempting to sit up in her bed when he walked into the small room. The heavy dress was an hindrance now and she could not wait to take it off. It was a bad reminder of her day. Her head was still pounding, but she found the strength to sigh dramatically as she saw him.

“There you are. What took you so long?”

“Excuse _me_ , I had someone else to shout at before focusing on you.”

She smirked, then winced.

“Can you find me some more of the drink Aramis gave me?”

“Lie down first.”

He was looking down at her, hands on his hips, his attitude so authoritarian, much like a husband would rebuke his wife, that she did as she was told. Athos looked around for a moment before he found what he was looking for. The bed sank under him as he sat down by her side. He did not give her the cup, keeping it in his hand. On their own accord, his fingers brushed the hair from her face.

“Is it what it takes for you to show concern? Being almost murdered by Rochefort?”

“Don't be foolish,” he muttered, the corners of his mouth yet lifting at the sarcasm. She would recover perfectly well. “Can you tell me what happened exactly?”

“I'm not sure you want to know.” She wanted to drink the potion and then fall back into oblivion where she did not hurt so much. At the same time, it had been such a long time since someone had been so protective and soothing with her. She had almost forgotten what it was like. A warm feeling was invading her body, and she turned her head toward him, ignoring the shot of pain.

“Porthos told us about the King. You should not have subjected yourself to it.”

“It's not like _he_ would have been more successful...”

“Of course, but....I'm amazed you did it. That you even _had_ the idea of doing it.”

“Man of little faith. I told you I would help.”

“It did not mean you had to suffer through so much.”

“Well, let's hope it's the last time because I am certainly _not_ willing to come so close to death for your friends ever again.”

She fell quiet for a few minutes. It hurt to even speak. Rochefort's grip on her throat had been very powerful and she was still sore from it, even hours later. Her fingers grazed her neck. Athos noticed. Her white skin was covered in bruises which were slowly taking in the shapes of fingers.

“Did he do this?” She nodded. “Why?”

“I made fun of him.”

“Was it necessary?”

“He had just surprised me with the King and had been told I would probably be welcome to Court again. I did not think he would attempt to kill me in broad day light.”

“Was the King present?”

“He may be stupid, Rochefort is not _that_ stupid.” If she could have rolled her eyes at the question, she would have done so.

“How did you escape then?” She trembled as his own fingers traced the damage on her neck. It brought back bad memories even though she willed her mind to focus on the present, and the quiet conversation they were having. There were so few of those.

“I stabbed him with a piece of broken glass.”

Athos sat very still at the confession. He was not overly fond of the next question he had to ask.

“How bad?”

“I did not wait around to find out, as you can imagine! I am not suicidal!”

“Really? You could have fooled me.” Milady forgot she had a headache and it worsened when she glared up at him. She swatted his hand away, sitting up to face him.

“You're not funny, Athos.” He did not apologize, waiting for her to answer his question. He had to know. “I think I hit close to the heart. There was an awful lot of blood when I ran away.”

Athos closed his eyes, letting the revelation sink in. Although she had been distressed and fighting for her life, Milady had always been quite an accurate assassin. Who knew if Rochefort was still alive as they were talking? If he was dead, the soldier's entire plan was meaningless. If the King's most trusted counselor and First Minister had been murdered, nothing would make him change his mind now. Nothing would convince him that the Musketeers were not guilty or than the Queen had not fomented the whole catastrophe.

Milady witnessed the despair on his face, he who usually hid his feelings so well.

“What is it? Aren't you glad he might no longer be a nuisance?”

“Under other circumstances, I would be. But if he's dead, there's no chance for us to save the Queen.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. Should I have kept him alive so she might resume her privileged life more easily?” She snapped so hard, her face so close to his that he had to close his eyes, hissing to keep from shouting his disapproval.

“I never said that. You did what you had to do to make it out and if it ends with his death then....We'll have to work a way around it. It only complicates matters, that is all.”

Milady was seething, he could see it. Without looking, he put the full cup on the floor, both of his hands coming to rest on top of hers.

“I'm awfully grateful you wounded him and came back,” he whispered after she had calmed down.

Milady raised an eyebrow, her eyes traveling from his fingers rubbing her left hand to his face. He looked tired.

“Are you going to tell me you love me now? Because I don't think I can sustain another shock today.”

“You're so infuriating.”

The dry laugh she made to answer triggered his own smirk.

“Truth be told, I'm awfully glad I came back, as well. Porthos was getting on my nerves.”

“ _You_ are getting on my nerves.”

“But _you_ love it.”

“....Sometimes.”

It was effortless, bantering with a woman he should have abhorred with all his heart. He could not find any ill feeling toward her at the moment. She often was a nuisance, and even though they had been arguing amid the jests, it was a comfort to be able to speak with her, to have some quiet time to themselves. He would worry about Rochefort later. Now, he only desired to bask in the thankfulness that she had returned somewhat safe to the convent.

“Are you going to be a gallant man and kiss me first or should I bring shame on myself and do it?”

Athos growled, his lips bruising one of the last parts of her face which had been unarmed. Milady winced as his hands grabbed her shoulders. Her arm hurt terribly but focusing on the warmth of his body, irradiating on hers, she instantly felt better.

It was less violent than the previous kisses. He may have been more careful because she was injured or his feelings may indeed have changed. She did not know. She did not care. He was kissing her, and it was both a relief and a pleasure.

Then, he gripped her shoulders stronger, and when she groaned it really was in pain. He had to let go. It surprised him that he regretted it. Aramis was not the only man whose mind was dazzled after spending time with a woman he held dear.

“You need to rest. Here, drink up.”

“Is it alcohol?” He glared, holding up the cup to her lips. “A shame.”

Athos could not leave her after she had fallen asleep, despite what she had told him about Rochefort. The others were probably asleep and it would not do to wake them up to share more horrible news. It could wait until morning.

The bed was too small so he settled on the floor, his hand never leaving hers as he fell asleep in this position, his head against the wooden frame.

It unsettled Aramis to notice how peaceful his brother-in-arms looked. Marguerite had stayed with him outside because she could not find sleep at the time, and he had been happy to have some company. But now, he almost had to carry her inside, her eyelids were so heavy that she could barely walk straight.

“I had no idea they were so close,” she whispered as he steadied her close to her own bed.

The soldier had been correct in his assumption: something had changed between Athos and Milady. Perhaps it was for the best. She had risked her life for him, for the Queen, and Athos desperately needed someone to care for. At least he could do so freely with her. It was not treason. One of the Musketeers may come out of this mess with the woman he desired after all.

“They're married.” Marguerite gaped, staring at him wide-eyed. Aramis had to grin. “I know. Today's been a day heavy in revelations. Get some rest.”

He kissed her cheek softly, her eyes closing in response to the sweet gesture. The governess' mind was lighter in the knowledge that their argument in the kitchen in the morning had been mostly forgotten, her betrayal mostly forgiven by everyone.

She was asleep as soon as he had drawn the blanket on her.  


	23. Chapter 23

 Chapter XXIII

 

It was raining when the Queen woke up, her cheeks still bearing the dried tears she had shed all night long. She did not feel rested at all, but her son appeared to be quite upset. He was thrashing in his crib, small fists balled and hitting her as she cradled him in her arms. She hoped Constance or even Marguerite would hear the cries and come to her rescue. It sickened her that she did not know how to properly tend to a baby. The day before had been the first time she had actually fed her child, giving him the milk provided by the nuns. At the Palace, there were wet nurses and many ladies to assist her. Here, she was by herself.

Queen Anne liked rocking her son, singing him lullabies or even telling him stories. She could soothe him when he was fussing lightly, or when he woke up in the middle of the night because he needed to be held in warm arms. It was a soothing feeling for her as well, because he was almost the only person in her life from whom she derived some joy. He was the most important person in her life. It made no doubt for her that she would defend him with her own life if she ever had to come to such end.

Today, though, none of her efforts seemed to ease whatever pain or trouble the baby was having. He was bawling, but shedding no tear. Frightened, she put a hand on his forehead. It reminded her of the time he had had a fever and none of the physicians knew what to do to heal him. His face was not overly warm, but how could his mother be certain?

Constance's knock and sudden appearance in the small room was a blessing for Queen Anne.

“Is everything fine, your Majesty?”

“He's upset, and I have no idea why.”

The Dauphin had awoken everyone in the building, and amid Porthos' curses and Tréville's threats to Aramis that he should not move one inch, the woman had deemed it wise to inquire about the problem.

The Queen looked so clueless that Constance felt sorry for her. None of them had had a very pleasant night, even after sleeping for a few hours. Their world had once again been rocked, and it was starting to be too much. In a sense, it was a relief to have to care for a baby, to focus on primary needs instead of on affairs of state and treason.

“Has he eaten?”

“The milk we gave him a couple of hours ago, yes.”

Constance glimpsed into the crib. The sheets the Dauphin slept on were dirty.

“He did not keep it down, I'm afraid.”

“What?”

“He must have been sick,” she explained, holding the soiled linen so the Queen would witness it for herself.

She cradled her son closer to her chest, pacing the room to try to calm him down. One of her hands came to rest on his stomach, rubbing to ease whatever pain he had to be experiencing. Hatred for Rochefort flooded her mind at the same time. It was his fault if Marguerite and Constance had had to escape with her child. It was his fault if they were confined in the convent. It was his fault if the baby was sick.

“Is something wrong with the milk? How could something be wrong with milk which comes directly from a cow?”

“I don't think something is wrong with the milk, your Majesty. He's simply not used to it.”

“What do you mean? Milk is the only thing he drinks, even in Paris....Oh.”

The Queen raised her head sharply. She understood what Constance was talking about. It was another thing she had been forbidden to do at the Palace. A Queen could not debase herself by nursing her own offspring. It was below her station. There were wet nurses for this purpose. There was none at the convent with them. Her son was hurting because of it.

“I will need your help, Constance,” she decided, carefully putting the crying babe in the arms of her companion.

“What are you doing? No!” The Queen was already unlacing the front of her white shirt, her mind resolute.

“Give him back to me.”

“But...your Majesty...You should not....”

“Is there another way? I am his mother and he requires feeding. Give him back to me.”

The Queen's hands trembled once he was settled in her arms, his head on her naked chest. It was cold and she shivered. Even though he was still upset, his mouth hungrily sought her breast and she shuddered more. It was not a pleasant sensation at first. It was painful, but she forced herself to remain poised.

Constance had adverted her gaze to stare at the rain pattering on the window. As the child quieted down and the only sounds were those of his mouth, Queen Anne realized that she was doing what any mother in the country had to do for their children, and it made the pain fade away. Her fingers grazed his head, the blond hair, then his back, rubbing circles.

“You may change sides if it starts to hurt too much,” Constance advised. Although she was not a mother, there had been countless children born in her neighborhood so she was perfectly aware of what nursing babies involved.

“Is everybody still here?” The Queen's real question hung in the air, too obvious that she might as well have directly asked about Aramis.

“Yes. We only just woke up.”

“Was Louis responsible?”

“We should have been awake hours ago anyway.”

“Nevertheless, I am terribly sorry. Porthos needed to rest after everything he's done for us.”

“Believe me, I'm pretty sure he's gone back to sleep.”

Queen Anne smiled fondly, then winced as the baby became too greedy. Carefully, she followed Constance's advice, trying to look calm while her entire chest hurt. She would have to grow used to the feeling, though. She would have to feed her son often. Pride surged through her at the thought. How much she had discovered about herself these past days, how many feelings she had allowed herself to experience and acknowledge. How could she ever go back to her dutiful life after this interlude?

“Am I being foolish, Constance? Is it so terribly wrong to wish for happiness?”

“Absolutely not, your Majesty.”

“I am so selfish, aren't I? I have one of the most privileged lives in the country...At least I used to have it and yet....I wish I could have so much more, which _is_ horribly selfish.”

“You're not selfish.”

It saddened the woman to see how much the Queen chastised and blamed herself. She did not envy her position at all. Working at the Palace had shown her how overwhelming being a monarch could be. Before, she had imagined the Queen of France had to have an incredible life, spending her days in gorgeous gowns and eating wonderful food that they would not even dream of in the Parisian streets. The reality had been so different from her dreamy vision.

Queen Anne could never show her real face. She was Louis XIII's wife and she constantly wore a mask in public. She was never truly by herself, there was always an audience. There were always guards, which should have been a sign of protection but looked more like an hindrance to her. Constance could understand why the Queen wished for a quieter life.

“What I wish for is so inconceivable, so remotely improbable, and it would have repercussions on so many people, you included. I _am_ selfish.”

Constance sat down next to the Queen. The baby had stopped eating, his head lulling against his mother's chest, his breathing even and content. He had stopped crying. It did not feel as if she was in the company of a monarch. The Queen had cried in her arms earlier in the night. It felt as if she was sitting near a friend. So she dared say what she would have normally not even considered thinking.

“If I may?” Queen Anne nodded her assent. “Please stop me if I'm wrong. You're in love.” She was not interrupted. Instead, she saw how the Dauphin's head rose and then fell as his mother sighed heavily.

“From the very first time I have met the King, I thought I knew what love was. But then, Aramis arrived and he shattered my feelings. Sometimes, I wonder how I was able to go through the motions of my life before he was involved in it. It....it hurts, because I am aware it cannot last. I wish I could have it forever.”

“Being in love does hurt. I should know.”

Constance was silent for a moment, remembering how d'Artagnan had rocked her own life when she had first met him and every day since. The Queen envied her; she was free to love the man she desired without fear.

“It is such a sweet pain. It is so wonderful and magical. It hurts more to realize that I have been craving it but now, I have to fall out of love. It is the only way, although I am so reluctant to do so.”

There were tears in her eyes. It was not often that she could speak freely and confess feelings which were treacherous to begin with. Her hold on the child tightened. It broke her heart that she had to let go of his father to keep him safe, to keep _them_ safe. He fussed a little at the pressure, the sounds he made the perfect reflection of the Queen's feelings.

Despite being aware that duty to the country was her motivation, it was bittersweet to have to put her emotions to the side. It was what she had been instructed to do for all her life. However, Aramis had showed her that it might be different sometimes and she had basked in this knowledge for a couple of days. She did not want to go back to wearing a passive mask at Court.

The safety of the kingdom was more important than love. It was not affection which ruled a nation, but reason. What she had experienced was not a mere infatuation but it had put everybody in danger. It had been a nice distraction and she would always cherish the extraordinary consequence she was holding in her arms. It had to stop now; her heart was bleeding at the thought.

Queen Anne did not chide away from Constance's hand on her shoulder. It was a gesture which was too familiar, yet it did not feel wrong in such a situation, much like everything that was taking place in the convent lately. She had not been ashamed to cry the night before, but it would not do to break apart once more.

All of a sudden she stood up, forcing her countenance to straighten, and determined to stare out of the window until her emotions were better under control. She swayed a little on her feet, though and Constance noticed how pale she was.

“Would you like me to find some food for you as well? Nursing a baby requires much strength.”

“Indeed, it does. I will come down with you.”

If she stayed closeted in her room, she would suffocate.

The building was bustling with nuns, all of them bowing and so attentive to her every need that it comforted her a little. She was told to wait in the room where they had had the conversation which had prompted her great argument with Aramis. The infirmary was on her path and she stopped at the entrance to inquire about its occupants.

Marguerite was nowhere to be seen, lady de Winter was grumbling while Aramis was checking her injuries, Athos waiting by the side. He would roll his eyes every time she made an angry sound, and without knowing why, it made the Queen laugh. They all turned around as her presence was revealed.

She struggled to keep her face solid and royal as Aramis turned briefly to look at her. The left side of his face looked like he had received a beating worse than the ones inflicted by Rochefort. He bowed his head so quickly she almost did not see it. Athos had to repeat his question twice until she heard it.

“Is everything all right with the Dauphin?” The Queen hoped with all her heart it was still his title. In spite of her hopeless dream of a simpler life, she could not force her son to grow up in fear and hiding because of her.

“I should hope so. It seems cow milk did not go well with him, but it has been dealt with.” She shifted awkwardly when the child moved against her chest, pain shooting in her breasts. Aramis pressed more on Milady's head in response to the Queen's answer. It took extraordinary strength to not look worried at her tone of voice. She sounded in pain.

“You're hurting me!” Milady hissed, scooting away from his probing fingers.

“I'm sorry. It's stopped bleeding.”

“For which I am very grateful. I had no intention to bleed out to death for you.”

“I wish to thank you,” the Queen interrupted. The other woman turned her head fast, wincing at the headache it triggered. “You have put yourself in great danger for my sake and the sake of France and it will not go unrewarded.”

“My pleasure, your Majesty.”

“Whatever you desire, I will make sure it is granted to you as soon as we will have returned to Paris.”

“Well, a new dress would be extremely more comfortable, but I am afraid not everybody is inclined to provide the same offer as you do.” She looked pointedly at Athos, who glared back.

“You're the one who declined the nun's offer.”

“And you're the one who said you would not help me put on another shirt so excuse me, but I am _not_ the person making the least effort here.”

In other circumstances, Aramis would have found their bantering oddly comforting and amusing. He did not know if the others had seen where Athos had spent the night, and he was not going to be the one to bring it up yet, but his friend had looked better upon waking up. Of course, being jolted from sleep by deafening baby cries was not the best, yet of all of them, Athos must have had the most resting sleep.

“It's raining and the weather has turned rather cool. This dress will keep you warmer than any other piece of clothing," Aramis argued. 

“Perhaps, but it is stained with Rochefort's blood, and the quicker it disappears from my sight, the better I will be.”

“What do you mean?” It was a shocked whisper. The Queen had listened to the conversation, feeling as if she was intruding on a personal moment. She would have retreated to wait for Constance if Milady's last words had not frozen her intention. Aramis was in the process of cleaning some bandages when he froze as well. It had somewhat the same effect on Athos who had yet to share the news with his brothers-in-arms.

“I may have even ridden you of a dreadful nuisance while trying to escape.”

“What did you do exactly?” How ever vigorously Aramis was trying not to look at the Queen, he could not honour this resolution now that the discussion was taking a turn for the worse.

“I stabbed him. Close to the heart. I have no idea whether he survived or not.”

Aramis stood up fully, his eyes locking on Queen Anne who returned the gaze, unashamed to be staring openly. She longed to be in his arms, to seek whatever reassurance she could find after this terrible confession. What would happen if the First Minister was dead? Would the King believe them if they were to tell him he used to be a spy? Would he even listen to them? Or would he think that his counselour had been murdered because he was telling the truth?

The soldier plainly saw how distressed she was, her face so white, her arms tightening around the baby in her arms. He had attempted to ignore the child to focus on Milady when all he wanted was to cuddle him, to comfort him if he was hurting. He adverted his eyes to silently question Athos who confirmed what the woman had just said, as well as the other's fear. Someone would have to go back to Paris and bring confirmation of Milady's assumption.

The Queen's heart was beating so fast, the courage she had mustered for a small amount of time dissolving so quickly, her newly found decisions for her personal life vanishing at the implication beyond the injured woman's action.

“Your Majesty? Will you be fine?” Athos' words rang in her ears, her head turning, her vision becoming blurry.

“Yes. Yes, I will. I will let you take care of Lady de Winter.” She could not collapse in their presence. Aramis pondered going after her, because she did not look fine at all. Even if he had vowed he would keep his distance from now on, and he still believed he might soon leave to find Vargas, her demeanour worried him.

Then there was a loud commotion in the corridor, followed by bawling, shattering and Constance's shrilling scream.

“Aramis!”


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter XXIV

 

d'Artagnan was cleaning his rapier, the rhythmic sound of the cloth on the blade a comfort. It was raining too much for someone to be keeping watch outside, so he had settled by the window of their room. Porthos had gone back to sleep, crouched in what had to be an uncomfortable position by the open fireplace. He woke up with a start when Constance's yell echoed throughout the corridors, the young Musketeer dropping his weapon out of surprise.

Porthos scrambled to his feet, looking for his pistols because they had to be under attack. The woman would not have shouted with sheer fear if Aramis had only been doing something stupid again. Shaking his head to clear the drowsiness from his mind, he followed d'Artagnan who had broken into a run. He pushed past the nuns who were leaving their usual occupations, drawn by the racket.

“Let her breathe!” Athos's commanding voice broke the worrying whispers and dispersed the few sisters who were kneeling on the floor. Constance was cradling the crying Dauphin in her arms, sprawled on the cold floor-tiles.

Nobody was attacking them, he realized, colliding into d'Artagnan who had suddenly stopped right in front of him. Whatever had triggered it, the Queen appeared to have fainted. She was still unconscious, Aramis looking for her pulse, not careful and too terrified by what she was undergoing.

His hands were shaking, his fingers fumbling with her wrist and pressing to her neck, looking for any sign that she had not suffered too much from her fall. The baby did not seem to have been injured, which was a miracle. It did not matter now that he had vowed hours before to remain as far away from them as he could. His resolution to let her Majesty have closure by not returning any affection she might seek was forgotten. The two persons he cared the most for were in danger.

“What happened to her?” Porthos asked, too shocked to attempt to help his friend or even move. D'Artagnan knelt by Constance's side, holding both her and the Dauphin in his embrace. She was too distressed to stand up on her own.

The Queen's hair was forming a blond halo around her face, her eyelids closed but her eyes moving restlessly beneath them. Her body was twitching in a strange way and she squeezed Aramis' hand when he put it in her left one. It must have been a reflex because she did not do anything else, did not speak.

“She's nursed the Dauphin. It must have put a strain on her.”

Aramis looked up at Constance then back at the Queen. He would have time later to fall more in love with all the wonderful things she agreed to do, going out of her way to make sure her son was well.

“That and everything else.”

“Milady might have killed Rochefort,” Athos explained, his eyes seeking her from her position in the doorway of the infirmary. There was no bitterness in his voice, and she was grateful for it. She held Portho's stare, but could not hide her surprise when he merely nodded. He did not seem to be angry at her, which was a first.

Constance turned in d'Artagnan's arms, her head buried against his chest, the baby protected by both their bodies. He was still bawling, but the soldier could not care less. He was holding them so tightly, with no intention of letting go. It did not matter if it was the heir to the throne and that his uniform was dirty.

“Your Majesty? Can you hear me?” Aramis brought his fingertips to her brow. She looked paler than usual. He should not have believed her when she said that she would be fine. How could she be fine when problems kept on being added to her burden? There was no response to his question. He tried a different approach.

_“Can you hear me? It's Aramis. Ana?Please do something if you can hear me.”_

There was no reaction to the Spanish either. Ever so carefully, he put one arm under her waist, the other supporting her head, until she was cradled in his arms, her head slouched against his shoulder when he stood up, daring anybody else to challenge what he was doing. He could hear her heart pound in her chest.

He strode up the stairs, followed by the others. He knew that this time it was not because they were afraid of what he might do. Their only intention was to assist and make sure the Queen would be safe and well in the end.

“I need water and more blankets,” Aramis instructed once he had settled the woman on her small bed. She was shivering, her hands were cold, but her face was hot, as if she had a fever. Porthos darted down and came back in no time. He had not spoken to his best friend since he had hit him. He had no intention to apologize for his anger because it was completely justified. It aggravated him that the other could still entertain strong emotions for the monarch.

Yet, he could not help but notice the look of pure concern in Aramis' eyes. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing her hands to warm them, his voice so low he would not have understood what he was saying even if he was speaking in French, which he was not. They had taken to speaking in Spanish sometimes, a fact that all their companions frowned upon: it did not help them disregard their affection for one another. The Queen always sounded more vehement whenever she used her mother tongue, so it was another source of dismay that she was not responding to this language either.

“Do you need anything else?”

“No. Thank you.”

“Don't mention it.” Porthos spread a blanket on the Queen, tucking it around her feet. She looked so vulnerable, not a monarch but a simple woman whose life was being destroyed more and more every day. The water was hot and it dripped from some cloth to her forehead and her cheeks when Aramis gently put it on top of her head.

“Perhaps we should let her rest,” Athos suggested. If she was not injured physically, there was not much that Aramis could do for her. His friend looked at him with agony. He was a fool for falling in love with the Queen in the first place, but no one could deny the devotion pouring out of him. It did not take Athos more to realize that Aramis would never recover from it.

He turned his eyes on the fact that he kissed the Queen's forehead before leaving her alone. Porthos did not say anything either. The other was suffering enough on his own. He closed the door of the room, but nobody went back downstairs. They all stayed in the adjacent space, Constance rocking and shushing the Dauphin. It did not seem very effective.

Marguerite had joined them when she had heard that the Queen had suffered a fall, but her wrist still hurt too much for her to resume her position as a governess. Constance held out the baby to Aramis. He desired nothing more than to find comfort with the son given that he could do nothing for the mother. One glance at Tréville showed that he should not push his luck, that it would make everything more complicated.

“Perhaps he is hurt. You should make sure,” Constance suggested, offering the excuse that sounded like a blessing to the soldier. The former Captain could not object to it.

Aramis fought back the tears when the boy was against his chest. There clearly was nothing wrong with him at all. He had been frightened by the sudden fall, perhaps a little shaken, and his stomach might still hurt from the milk he had not managed to keep down. He turned his back on his companions, facing the window so that nobody could see his face. He wished to look at the child until his vision blurred, until every single little part of him was engraved in his memory. He wanted to be able to close his eyes and see the boy as distinctly as possible.

No one was talking, no one was asking what they were to do now that Rochefort might no longer be among the living. They may all have been looking at him, but Aramis did not care. He did not try to hide how personal this moment was for him, and when the baby eventually settled down and looked up at him with glistening eyes, a lone tear rolled down his cheek, one he did not wipe away.

“I suppose I should leave as soon as possible to find Vargas,” he said, unable to look at anything else but the baby.

“If Rochefort is indeed dead, I don't see how bringing the spy master to the King would make things better.” Porthos sounded hopeless as he watched his best friend attempt to control his feelings yet failing quite remarkably. 

“If he confirms that Rochefort was working for the Spanish, it will not matter if he is alive or dead. The King will believe us and overrule any decision made under his influence.”

“You do realize, Captain, that we were awfully lucky to make it out of Paris yesterday,” Porthos reminded him. “I would bet all the money I don't have that the security is so thick around the Palace that we would be arrested and even killed the second they would see us. They would not even bother to ask what we were doing.”

“What do you suggest then? That we do nothing? That we flee? I thought we were not cowards!” d'Artagnan was as desperate as his friends. The entire situation was out of hand. It had been before, ever since the Queen had first been attacked, yet there had always been a slight possibility that the problem might be resolved. Their peril sounded hopeless for the first time today.

Constance put one hand on his arm, feeling it tremble under her touch. Aramis sighed so loudly it almost sounded like he was mad at his friend, which he could never be.

“We'll never be cowards, d'Artagnan. But if staying away and running is the only means for us to remain safe, then....”

“Where would we run, Porthos? Where would we go? There would be no village in the country where we would be protected.”

“Not as such a big company, you are correct. But if we break in smaller groups...”

“No, Porthos,” Aramis cut him off. He finally turned around, the baby's head on his shoulder, his tiny fist grabbing the material of his shirt. The soldier's hand was firmly on his back, fingers rubbing and soothing. He had to remind himself to do it so his own anxiety would not transpire and affect the child.

“I will not let you live your life in constant fear because of me. I've involved you enough already.”

“We chose to be involved the day we decided to save you, you idiot. We may not be Musketeers anymore, you're still my brother. What type of family would we be if we did not watch each other's back?”

Aramis groaned, conflicted. He had no idea if Porthos was still furious at him for having spent another night with the Queen. It amazed him that he was the one proposing that they fled, forgetting the idea of returning to the Palace.

“Besides, look at yourself. You're in no state to deceive anybody. You're a wreck.”

“How very kind of you to say so.”

“I agree with Porthos,” Athos said, arms crossed, leaning against the wall, so close to Milady their shoulders were almost touching. “If you go, it will only end in another disaster. You're better here, or wherever we'll go next, than attempting to find Vargas.”

“I already told that I did not want any of you to risk your life for me anymore.”

“And I believe it is a very wise decision, but you're all so stubborn, Musketeers or not.” Milady rolled her eyes, winced and pushed herself off the wall so she was standing at attention. “If Rochefort has died, and we would all rejoice if it were the case -don't tell me I'm wrong,” she dared the others to contest her statement. None did. “If he has died, it will not matter that it was self-defense. The King will see it as murder. Even if you drag your spymaster to Paris, it will not change the fact that his accusations will still hang in the air. I doubt the King will completely trust the Queen or you ever again after everything that snake told him.”

“So we don't do anything anymore? Is that what you're saying?” Athos asked. It did feel like cowardice to him. It may be a life _she_ could live, the Queen did not have her training or endurance. Constantly looking over her shoulder, especially with a child to be looked after, it could not last long.

“It is what she asked for after all,” Porthos reminded them, cocking his head toward the closed door.

“And you had a very different opinion about it last night, if my face recalls correctly.”

“Well, yes. You took me by surprise, you and your stupid feelings. But now, it seems to be a safer alternative than riding out without knowing if it will be effective at all.”

“But what if it could be?” d'Artagnan was astonished to realize that he may be the only one still attempting to get the Queen back to Paris and to clean all of their names.

“She said she did not want this anymore.”

“Her Majesty told me it was selfish to wish for another life, and that it would endanger too many people to request it once more,” Constance chimed in, remembering her previous conversation with Queen Anne.

“See? Even the Queen thinks she should go back to Paris.” d'Artagnan was glad the woman was backing him with arguments.

“She does not want to go back, don't you understand? It's her duty to want to.”

“And it is ours to make sure she does,” Aramis reminded Porthos. His friend looked at him, bewildered. The situation was totally reversed. He was the one arguing in favour of her Majesty while the one who loved her wanted to see her safe with her rightful husband.

“That's your sense of duty talking, too, Aramis. I'm aware we told you to deny anything happened, but let's face it, it's never going to happen.”

“If someone tried to take _him_ away from you, I believe you would probably wrestle for it, your son in one arm and your sword in the other,” Milady voiced what everybody else could plainly see. Aramis' eyes could not stop looking down at the baby, as if pulled by some sort of invisible force. The child was grasping the golden chain around his neck, and his tiny fingernails sometimes scraped his chest, and Aramis would lie if he said it was not a perfect sensation.

“He's not my son.”

If her arm did not hurt so much, she would have slapped him. She made to walk up to him, but Athos stopped her, his hand closing on her good arm. She did not jerk free, instead snapping at Aramis who was being ridiculous.

“Jesus Christ! I used to think that one was the most stupid,” she hissed, looking at d'Artagnan.” But you top him actually! How do you handle all of their nonsense?”

“He drinks,” d'Artagnan answered the question aimed at Athos.

Tréville shook his head at the entire scene. He did not know what to do of them all. There were so many different opinions, so many different suggestions. He could not believe that Porthos would be the one defending the Queen's point of view, although he was starting to understand why. Aramis was his best friend. It had been normal that he was the one hitting him and it was also normal that he was the one providing the most support.

The older man hated to admit it, but his soldier was making more sense than d'Artagnan. From everything that the Queen had suffered, she would never survive long in Paris. She would probably wither so quickly if she were to resume her royal position.

“She just insulted you and you manage to jest? You've improved.”

“Shut your mouth, Porthos.”

“Mind your language, there are ladies with us,” Tréville rebuked him.

“My apologies, Marguerite,” the younger soldier mumbled, squeezing Constance's arm after she had elbowed him in the ribs. She was still a lady as well, after all.

The governess smiled weakly, her eyes unable to settle on any of the other persons in the room with her. She did not understand if a decision had been made, or even how they could joke amid the grave problems they were discussing. At least they were involving her, acknowledging her presence instead of shunning her because she had betrayed the Queen to Rochefort.

As she looked at Aramis bouncing the baby on his arm, his lips buried in the thin blond hair on the heir's head, she hated herself more for having helped the First Minister. The Musketeer may have broken her heart and shattered any hope she might have had for a life with him, he was totally dedicated to the child and his mother. He was willing to suffer for them to be safe. How she wished she had his courage.

What Porthos suggested required much courage as well. They were all so brave in their own way, even if they did not agree. The Queen could not have asked for better protectors. They were arguing for her safety and her future, although Marguerite had not really understood what they had agreed on.

“So, can someone explain what we will do next?” she inquired in a small voice.

“First, we'll wait for her Majesty to have recovered and then, we'll adjust.”

Athos' decision was unanimously accepted. There was no point in waiting idly, Milady decided, going downstairs to fend for food. The soldier followed her, as did d'Artagnan and Constance. The young man was perplexed by his friends' reactions and he knew he would have comfort with the woman he loved.

Tréville pondered staying behind with Aramis, but eventually decided that it would change nothing for the moment. Marguerite offered to relieve him from the baby so he could concentrate on watching the Queen in case she needed his full attention. It was no surprise when he declined the offer.

Aramis exhaled the heavy breath he was been holding ever since he had been asked to check if the child was unharmed. He was alone with his son – because Milady was right: he had never successfully managed to forsake the thought, and now he knew he would never be able to.

 

 

 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some lines are taken from 2x10

 Chapter XXV

 

Athos had lost track of time ever since catastrophes had begun to befall them. Apparently, it was Sunday, and all the nuns had ceased their mundane activities for a day of more fervent praying and dedication to the Lord. Most of them were in church this morning, except for the few whose task was to prepare the frugal meal the community would share.

The three sisters kept signing themselves and shooting glances at Milady every time she would curse vehemently. None of the food in the kitchen seemed to be of her liking, and the soldier was growing quite ashamed of her behaviour. It appeared that she did not care if she was not having an attitude fit for a convent or that she was using a crude language in the presence of nuns.

“You could remember how to be a lady, don't you think?” he hissed once she had thrust a plate in his hand. She could not carry both. Her headache had not subsided, but after a rather quiet night thanks to Aramis' drug, she felt rested. At least more than the Queen. Milady was famished, though. She could not remember the last time she had eaten. It might well have been before they even entered the Palace the previous day.

“There is no one to impress here, and besides, it's been a very long time since I've been a proper lady.”

Athos rolled his eyes, snatching a bottle of wine from the kitchen counter. He followed her as she strode in the corridor back to the room they used to eat. Even though she was making jests and ordering him around, her walk was not as steady as it should be. It was still bearing the consequences of Rochefort's violence.

“It's a pity it's raining. We could have made a picnic out of it. What do you say? For old time's sake. It might have been enjoyable.”

She was peering through the tall window in the empty room. Her dress was soiled and even ripped at the bottom, her hair was a wild mess, and as she was turning her back on him, Athos could have almost imagined she was well and unharmed.

“How can you be so carefree when the entire kingdom might be crumbling down?”

“Well, someone has to be or we will all drown in sorrow and self-loathing. Which should not be a change for you, isn't that right?”

“You should know as you are the main cause of it.” He set the plate and the bottle on the table, the noises loud enough to cover his mumble. Or so he thought.

Milady turned back, her plate sliding on the table, food rolling on the wood. Some fell to the floor but neither of them reached down to gather it.

“Is it really how it's going to be between us, now?” There was one hand on her hip, her other arm's being stuck in the makeshift sling Aramis had given her earlier.

“What do you mean?”

“Arguing and blaming the other to no end.”

“It's been that way for years,” he reminded her sternly.

“What about what has been following these past days? _This_ has not been how we used to finish our conversations before.”

“I suppose the whole predicament is making me quite unsure of my own emotions as well,” Athos conceded, glaring when he noticed a flash of victory in her eyes. “You still killed my brother.”

Milady groaned, stepping closer, so close that there was only one corner of the table between them. Her skin was covered in goosebumps, probably more from the cold than by the way he affected her, but she could not be certain. It had been years since he had had this effect on her. If it had happened some months earlier, she would have abhorred it and thought she was turning mad. It was unsettling and a little enticing today.

“I cannot believe it....Yes, I did. Because he tried to rape me! I suppose I should have let him do it so we could have continued to live a peaceful and quiet life. How very stupid of me.”

“Shut up.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said _shut up_. You are being foolish. How can you even entertain such ideas?”

“I don't see what other alternative would have allowed us to remain together.”

“You should have come to me instead of butchering him.”

Athos caught a glimpse of the dismal look in her eyes, before she looked down. The ghost of their past had been brought back into the discussion. She looked so hurt in that moment, so different from the insensitive killer she had become because of his family. He reached for her valid hand, the cold skin sending a spark of remembrance through her body. She shivered at the touch, yet did not draw back. His fingers curled around hers.

“And whose version would you have favored? Your brother's who you had lived with your entire life and your wife's who you had only known for a couple of years?”

The soldier had to admit that he had no clue to what answer he could give her. He was not sure that he wanted to know his own answer. He gently grabbed her chin, willing her to raise her head and look into his eyes. Her chest heaved with the short breaths she was taking.

“At least this mess might not have happened and Thomas might still be alive.”

“I will never apologize.”

“I'm not fool enough to think you will. Nevertheless, we could have found some sort of solution. Perhaps.”

“Is it something you think about sometimes?” Her question was a mere whisper, her eyes locking on him and searching for truth, for reassurance, for hope. In this instant, Athos could almost imagine there had been no murder and no hanging. If not for the bruises and bloody lips, she looked like the woman he had passionately loved, the woman he may still love.

It bothered him that her neck was turning so black from Rochefort's fingers. It was a feeling so powerful that it overrode the guilt he always experienced whenever he saw the mark left by the rope years ago. Athos had already given her a scarf to hide the kissing marks he had put on her before she left for Paris, but she had lost it. He untied the one around his neck, putting it on her, although it was not for the same reason and she did not tease him.

“I'm so used to despising you that I cannot imagine it otherwise.”

“We used to be happy, didn't we?”

“Yes.”

“But now, I've become this vile and ugly thing, this stranger who cheats and lies and kills without conscience. I don't want to be this creature anymore. I want to be... what I was once with you. Feel hope instead of this deadness in my heart.”

Milady closed her eyes at the difficult confession. It was excruciating to open her heart, to know that he was judging her and perhaps hating her, despite the display of passion from his kisses. How could she make him understand that right now, in this room, ever since she had been shunned by the King, she was not lying anymore?

It was more demanding to express what was on her mind, to explain what she desired with all her heart than face enemies and be an assassin. She could kill opponents. Pouring her feelings out to a man who had one day sentenced her to death was the worst trial she had had to face yet. Her heart and mind would shatter if he rejected her.

His fingers were on her neck, gliding slightly on her bare shoulder, so she focused on them rather than on the silence surrounding her. Athos felt the shivers under his touch, heard the shaking in her voice.

“What will you do then? When all of this is over?”

“Start a new life. In England, perhaps.”

Athos raised an eyebrow that she could not see. The suggestion was not overly appealing to him.

“It rains a great deal in England. And the food is...”

Milady scoffed at his comment. She opened her eyes again, staring at his outraged ones.

“Be honest. Would it matter to you if I went?”

“You're free to do as you please.”

“I'm not free. I'm bound to you as you are to me. You....could come with me, Athos.”

Milady imperceptibly squeezed his hand a little more. For the first time in a long time, she was terrified of what he thought of her.

“We could go to Le Havres and sail for England together. There may be nothing left for you here either.”

Nobody knew how the day would unfold, what would happen when the Queen would wake up, what would be decided. Athos did not want to encourage what her Majesty desired. How could they protect her if they were constantly running? It was their duty, though. The King may have repudiated her, he would always see her as his Queen, a woman he respected and he would most certainly lay down his life for.

“I cannnot abandon my duty.”

“Would you if there was none to honour?”

Athos stared at her for an incredible long period of time. Neither of them said anything. She did not prompt him to answer more quickly. She took a small step to the side, ridding them of the table between their bodies. She closed the gap, bringing both of their hands up to his chest. The fingers which were on her shoulder traced the outline of her dress, descending until it settled on her hip.

“I'll survive if you say no. I will leave alone and you'll never see me again. We have no reason in the world to trust each other but who else can we trust? Who else knows us like we know each other?”

“I've distrusted you for so long. What you did for the Queen, though, what you did for Aramis, that's....Perhaps I am making a mistake but.....I could consider it.”

Milady put her forehead against his shoulder, exhaling the breath she had been holding. Her body shook against his, his arm circling her waist.

“It can never be the same. Not after everything.”

“I know, but...we could have something else. I think I could grow to enjoy it. It would be far better than having to bed the King to gather information. Or murder people to gain favours.”

It seemed impossible to imagine such a turn of events. Athos was aware that he would never flee from his friends, yet it surprised him to realize that the life she was painting, together, far away from the Parisian intrigues, could grow on him.

“Could you resume a tranquil life?”

“Who said anything about a _tranquil_ life?”

“Please, if I have to suffer from English food _and_ English weather, I at least expect to spend my days safely away from problems.”

Milady was grinning when she looked up at him. There were blond curls on her face. Athos let go of the hand twined in his to push the hair away from her eyes.

“What?”

“You _are_ considering it,” she stated. He considered rolling his eyes once more. She was telling the truth so it would have been pointless.

“So what?” She shook her head, wincing in pain.

“Nothing. Can you speak English?”

“Can you?”

“Of course. I would not have chosen this destination otherwise. Athos, seriously, do you think I'm so stupid? Don't answer that question,” Milady added as he opened his mouth.

He could not help his lips from twitching into a smile. He had not lied earlier in the conversation. His own feelings were confusing. Nothing made sense to him. He had hated the woman for so long, blaming her for a crime which had shattered his family and his trust in people. It had been years since, and in a few couples of days, Milady had managed to change the perception he had of her. He hoped with all his strength that she was not playing him. Because if she was, he would never recover from it.

“You're not stupid. You're brave, clever and so.....so......”

“Seductive?”

“Annoying.” He would pay her the other intended compliment later.

“So are you. I had to almost be killed twice in a week for you to realize how much you cared.”

“ _You_ had to be cast away and almost hanged again to change your attitude as well.”

“Ah, well, nobody's perfect.”

“We certainly aren't.”

Athos felt her move closer, if it was possible, but he was grateful for Constance and d'Artagnan's chatter in the corridor, growing louder and announcing their approach. There was a difference between kissing Milady because he was angry or overwhelmed by relief, and kissing her after having somewhat agreed to maybe start a new life together. He let go of her and stepped slightly away as they were joined by his friends.

They were young and amid the distress and anguish experienced by the entire group, it was refreshing for Athos to see how happy they were together. He wished it could be so easy with Milady as well. He knew it could never be, she had said it herself. If it ever came to that, and they were all to part ways to increase their chance of survival, he may be able to seek his own happiness once again. Despite resenting the fact that he would have to give up his brothers-in-arms -his family- Athos deeply craved it.

 


	26. Chapter 26

 Chapter XXVI

 

It was one of the oddest meals Porthos had ever eaten. He was sullen and troubled by the conversation which had followed the Queen's fall, and he hardly spoke to his companions gathered at the table. None of the others spoke much either. They were all lost in thoughts, nibbling and pushing food around in their plates rather than actually eating it.

Milady appeared to be the only one famished. Her plate was empty in a matter of minutes so she moved on to Athos' after it became apparent that the soldier was not hungry. It left Porthos bewildered that his friend barely glared at Milady's bold move. He was also surprised that he could bear sitting next to her at all.

He had to admit that after what had happened in Paris, he looked at her differently. She was still deeply annoying and displayed a much too arrogant attitude given the situation. Besides, Porthos was aware of what she had done to Athos in the past, what his friend had suffered from because of her, and he hated her for it. Her actions had been heroic during their adventure in the capital city, so his judgment might be slowly changing. Judging from the glances Athos cast her way every time she would make an out-of-place comment, he was changing his opinion, too.

If his brother could manage to stop hating Milady, or at least tolerate her presence in his life, Porthos could certainly do it. She had been a great help, and she had been subjected to much more than any of the men, in terms of violence.

Porthos swallowed more food, washing it down with wine. Tréville had raised an eyebrow at the alcohol on the table. If they were to be attacked, drinking was not something they should do. The situation looked so desperate that he had eventually let them open the bottle.

Constance held on tight to d'Artagnan's arm. She was frightened for the Queen who was so in shock she had fainted. She was frightened for the Dauphin, but he was not crying anymore, which was the only comfort she could hang on to. She was frightened for Aramis and for her friends. She wanted to believe that they could fix the problem, go back to Paris and resume their previous positions without trouble. This possibility appeared to be dimming away so fast now.

The woman dreaded what it would mean for all of them, for the Queen, for the soldiers, for herself. However, whatever they would have to face, d'Artagnan would always be by her side, of that she was certain. She gripped his arm more strongly. His lips pressed on top of her head.

Although he was displeased to realize that Porthos might be willing to abandon their most important duty of protecting the country to grant her Majesty what she requested, d'Artagnan was glad the woman he loved was with him. Her every action amazed him. In spite of all the tumult, he could not keep from touching her, making sure she was really there. He kissed her cheek again, and Constance leaned against him, resting her head on his arm.

Marguerite kept her eyes down on her plate. She was grateful she was allowed at the table with them. Nobody was talking to her, yet, nobody was actually talking at all. It seemed that they were all so unsure of what the day would hold for their entire company that they could not even discuss it. Their life might be on the brink of change, and with the rain coming down on the convent, the cold air invading the building, the place looked like a nightmare in itself.

“I am not hungry. If you'll excuse me,” she decided, rising from her chair. It sickened her to have to stay idle while the Queen's health was in jeopardy. She may find comfort in God. The men stood up as she left.

“I'm not hungry either,” Porthos decided. He was not suited for brooding and waiting idly for a decision to be made. He needed action to keep his mind busy. He could also have needed rest, but with such a gloomy atmosphere looming around them, he knew sleep was not an option.

The soldier was all too aware that they had to leave the convent as soon as they could. To go where, he had no idea. But the King has issued warrants for them, there would probably be rewards for their capture so their safe haven may not be one for long.

The anger he felt for Aramis might never vanish totally. One decision made at a bad moment had upset his entire life, the Queen's, and incidentally the Musketeers'. Porthos also realized that his best friend was the most affected by it. It did not matter if he was angry or not: Porthos could not abandon him.

It would have been a good distraction to practice sword-fighting for a while, but none of his companions seemed inclined to do so. D'Artagnan was wrapped around Constance, Athos was too moody to agree to anything. Tréville was standing at the window, trying to peer through the rain at whatever might come their way.

Running up the stairs, he went to see if Aramis wanted anything to eat. It had been an unspoken decision to let him have time alone with the Dauphin, because they were so far gone that a little more could not hurt at this point. Porthos resented his friend for not telling him what was going on sooner. Perhaps they could have avoided this entire turmoil if Aramis had confessed what had occurred with the Queen.

There was no one where they had left the soldier a couple of hours earlier. The door to the Queen's room was half-open, and there were sounds inside that Porthos would recognize everywhere. As he caught a glimpse inside, Aramis was indeed fast asleep, snoring and slump on a chair. He had drawn his cape around the baby who was pressed against his chest, head on his heart, sleeping, too.

If anyone had walked in on this scene the day before, they would have dragged Aramis by his uniform and given him the beating of his life, much more than the two blows he had received from Porthos. There were so many barriers stampeded and crushed, so many uncertainties. Porthos only gritted his teeth, fists balled at his sides. The only thing preventing him from waking the other was that it would wake the Dauphin in the process. The baby was innocent.

There was a slight stirring in the bed and only then did he realize that the Queen was coming back to her senses. Her head was turned toward Aramis. She could not clearly recall how she had arrived in her bed in the middle of the day, or why the soldier was by her side, with her son in his arms.

Her head hurt, as did her entire body when she moved into a better position. The sight in front of her would likely never happen again so she had to engrave it in her memory. The father and the son, sleeping, peaceful and so close they melted together. Her heart heaved, and she brought a hand to her breasts which hurt from the quick breaths she was taking. Love might bring suffering, it was of a redeeming sort.

A piece of cloth fell inelegantly on her eyes. It was wet and cool. She was suffocating in the bed. There were blanket upon blanket on her, the pressure a little too much to handle. She was about to fumble with her burden when a deep voice called out for her.

“Your Majesty?”

“Porthos...,” she coughed, her voice hoarse and sounding foreign to her.

“Are you feeling better?”

“I suppose. What happened?”

“You've fainted.”

The Queen let his words sink in, her memory coming back to her slowly. She discarded the cloth which had kept her cool, grabbed the blankets and sat up straight. Blood rushed to her head, leaving her light-headed.

Porthos noticed how she swayed as she attempted to stand up. His hand was on her arm, letting her find her balance.

“You should rest more, your Majesty.”

“Not until we have discussed our situation. France first. I will have time to sleep when things will be dealt with.”

“I understand, but...”

“No _but_ , Porthos. I may not be the Queen anymore, we still need to worry about the future of the country.”

Her voice shook at the words; it was a disgrace and a shame, even though she deserved it. It was partly her fault if they were in this predicament. She had to do everything in her power to right her wrongs, to settle the turmoil the King was facing, to keep the kingdom at peace.

Porthos nodded, not letting go of her arm. She was too pale, too frail, to be trusted to not collapse again. She would always be the Queen to him, no matter what would unfold. What she had just said made him respect her more.

He gathered her coat so she would remain warm, his eyes settling on his brother-in-arms who the conversation had not disturbed.

“Should I...”

“There is no need for now.” She dismissed his offer with a sharp wave of her hand. It warmed her heart that Aramis could spend time with her child, even if he was asleep while doing it. She refused to think that soon everything would change.

The Queen let Porthos lead her downstairs, his grip on her firm. She was thankful for it. She was greeted by smiles and bows when they joined the rest of their companions. They all looked concerned for her, even Milady who stopped eating for a couple of seconds until the monarch was given a chair at the table.

“You must eat, your Majesty,” Constance urged. A plate was pushed in front of her. None of the items in it looked appealing to her, yet she brought some of it to her mouth. Strength needed to be regained.

“The ride to Paris will be long, indeed. When do you suggest we leave, Captain?”

“Your Majesty? I am not quite sure I understand...”

“I must return to the King as soon as possible. With everything that is going on, and if Rochefort is no more, I cannot delay further.”

The Queen forced the words to be firm, even if she was terrified of her own decision. It had been foolish to dream of another life. It had been selfish and absurd. Her duty was to ask forgiveness for the soldiers who had only meant to protect her. Nobody had been abducted; they had only wished to put distance between the First Minister and people he might hurt. The King would believe her. He always listened to her.

“With respect, it would not be wise....”

“We are not even certain of Rochefort's fate,” Porthos explained.

“Which is why I must go back. It is too important a moment to be hiding.”

“You are safe here. We cannot guarantee your safety in Paris. The King mentioned that he would have to put you on trial if you were found.”

The Queen looked up at Porthos, sheer astonishment on her face. Would Louis really do something like this to his wife? She was ruled by duty, so was he after all.

“What he actually said was that he would not want to sentence you to death but that he would have to. What? She has a right to know!” Milady added when Athos shot her a dark look. Queen Anne had been through enough since last night so she may not be subjected to more heavy revelations.

“Didn't you say that the Spanish spymaster....Vargas, is it his name? Didn't you say that he would provide proof of Rochefort's treason?”

“He would most certainly do. However, if Rochefort is dead, it will be murder and we are afraid his Majesty might not believe anything that we would tell him.”

“Fear has never stopped us before, Athos.”

“Your life has never been in such dire danger, your Majesty.”

“I owe it to my country to go back.”

“You owe it to your son to stay alive.”

“Constance!” d'Artagnan gasped, stunned by the woman's forwardness.

The Queen looked at her with surprise. It seemed that all the people who cared about her were challenging her decisions and standing up to what she said. Constance was correct, though, and it was what Queen Anne dreaded the most. She ought to try and settle matters, but if she failed, what would happen to her son? If she failed and she was not believed, the King would always have doubts about who the Dauphin's father was. He would not allow the child to live either. She swallowed some food to stop the frightened breath she almost drew.

“If I may....The King also mentioned that he would not sign your death warrant happily. It would be better if you stayed away from Paris and never re-appeared.”

“How may you sure of what the King exactly said?”

“Because I was the one he said it to, your Majesty.”

Milady bore the studying gaze of the Queen stoically. There were so many conflicted emotions on the other woman's face that she felt truly sorry for all her troubles. The Queen stopped eating, food falling on her plate. Her hands would not quit trembling. Could she really trust her? She used to make her life miserable, humiliating her to no end back at the Palace. On the other hand, she had been of tremendous help this past week. The Musketeers seemed to trust her, at least enough to welcome her presence in discussions such as this one.

“What might you suggest then? Should I forsake everything and run away like a coward?” d'Artagnan was pleased to realize he was not the only one thinking that it was not the solution to choose. She sounded outraged to even utter the words. Athos did not have the same opinion.

“Not cowardice, your Majesty. Self-preservation.”

“Besides, Aramis said it was something you may wish for.”

“What? Be a coward?” she snapped at Porthos. They only had her best interest in mind, yet she was not used to people standing up to her so forcefully.

“I would not dare, your Majesty. Have a life away from Paris, that's what I meant.”

“It was a foolish whim and he should not have shared it with you.”

“He's only concerned with your well-being.” The Queen sighed at Tréville's statement. She was aware it was true. One part of her still hang on to the beautiful idea of being a simple lady living a simple life, away from trouble and the Court. Escaping Paris and the Palace while she was believed to be a traitor to the country and to the King would not be a simple life. She would be with Aramis, though, wouldn't she?

“I am very thankful for it, truly. Yet, it was not the life I was born to have. Some of us do not have the leisure to choose. This was bestowed upon me, and I will not chide away from it.”

“Even if it leads you to death?”

“It might not. It all depends on what is happening in Paris. Which is the reason why you must find Vargas and bring him to the King. If Rochefort is alive, everything will be cleared.”

“Very well. But you _cannot_ go back until we know it's safe.”

“I will not let any of you risk your life for me again. This is my doing and I will settle it by myself, Captain.”

“You cannot go alone, your Majesty,” Constance pleaded. “Perhaps I could come with you?”

“Are you out of your mind?” d'Artagnan exclaimed. “There is a warrant on your head as well. Why would you want to throw yourself into danger?”

“For the Queen! It would be madness to go back by herself.”

“It would be indeed,” Athos concurred. “Your Majesty...you are too weak to ride such a long distance by yourself. It would require much vigor to confront the King and the First Minister, if need be. You've been through too much already.”

She had to concede that he was correct. The argument they were having was already too much for her. Her head ached, her body trembled despite the heavy coat on her shoulders. Her stomach hurt, and her vision was blurry from time to time.

“I refuse to let you die for me.”

“We have no desire to die, your Majesty,” Porthos promised. “We only aim to protect you and your son. I guess that if we have to keep you away from the King to do so, we will.”

His eyes swept his brother-in-arms so they would confirm he was saying what they all thought. D'Artagnan stared at him in disbelief, but Tréville and Athos merely shrugged their agreement.

“What about your own lives? You cannot abandon everything for my sake. I will not allow it.” Her voice was less regal than usual. Their arguments were crushing the self-imposed conditions she had put to her new resolution to ride back. She knew they had sworn allegiance to the King so incidentally to her, but she would never forgive herself if they had to give up everything they held dear to save her live and run away. All traitors to the Crown.

“As far as I'm concerned, the only family I have is them,” Porthos stated, flinging his arm at the other persons in the room.

“Same for me,” Athos concurred, his eyes lingering a little more on Milady as he said so.

“And me,” d'Artagnan agreed. Constance was standing behind his chair, one hand on his shoulder. He reached for it, looking up at her. She twined her fingers with his, smiling and nodding.

“Captain.....?” The Queen only managed to say, her throat clenching on any other words she might have gasped. Tréville looked at her sadly. She seemed so desperate, so unwilling to access to their demand, yet conflicted by it.

“I haven't been Captain for months, your Majesty.” He smiled at her, more as a comfort. Her shoulders slumped a little, her eyes down on her hands. The room was turning around her, her entire life, her future, her expectations, her duties, everything was vanishing in front of her. It was for her own good. It was for her son. It would keep her away from death.

She stood up, bracing herself on the table. Porthos made to help her, but she held her hand out. Looking at them all, people so dedicated to her they were agreeing to give up so much for her, she never felt safer, in spite of the danger.

“Then I believe that's no longer my title either.”


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter XXVII

 

She was in a strange haze. Everything was swirling around her, she felt dizzy and short-of-breath. As if she had run for miles. Her heart was pounding in her chest, the vibrations making her ears ring and her fingers tingle on the edge of the table. Her grip was so strong her hands were starting to hurt as well. If she let go, she did not what would happen. She would lose herself in the chaos.

People were talking around her, their words unintelligible. They sounded so far off, only a quick rumble. Her forehead was hot and she felt drops of perspiration on it. Her hair was stuck to her neck and her shoulders. It was too heavy. The coat was an hindrance. It brought her down, made her feel closed-in. She panicked.

Lifting a hand to unfasten it, she swayed on her feet, the garment falling to the floor. Something warm was on her arm, preventing her from losing her balance. The hand did not withdraw. Another one touched her left arm, and she was forced to sit down once again. Her vision was blurry, her hands clasped on her lap, fingers trembling and sore from clutching the table.

“Give her some wine.”

“Don't listen to her, Constance.”

“I'm only saying, it would help. You should know, Athos.”

“We're not going to make the Queen drunk.”

“She told you she is not the Queen anymore.”

“She will always be to me.”

“Yeah, to all of us.”

“Wonderful! You are all very dedicated to her. I fail to see how dedication will make her come to her senses. Alcohol on the other hand....”

“Stop it!...Porthos?”

“Yeah.”

Someone knelt in front of her, hands gliding from her shoulders to her wrists, trying to stop her from shuddering. The touch was comforting, the deep voice as well.

“Your Majesty? Can you hear me? It's Porthos.” She nodded weakly, her head aching at the sudden move. Her eyes closed, willing the tears ready to spill to stay trapped within.

“Tell us what you need. Tell us what we can do to help.”

She hardly knew how to answer the question. Her mind was a turmoil, thoughts swarming in all directions, unable to quiet down. Who was she? Where was she? Where would she go? Would she ever feel at ease in the world again?

Even sitting down, she lurched forward, chest heaving, hands shooting to grasp something to stop her fall. They closed around leather. She did not let go. Porthos pushed her gently on the chair again, something swaying on her chest. The weight of it was dragging her neck down, it was choking her. Her fingers closed on it to bring its pendulum movement to an end. She felt the edges, the ruby stones. She knew what she needed.

“Aramis, Aramis, Aramis...,” she chanted, the crucifix leaving its mark on her skin.

They all looked at each other, then at the woman who had just lost so much. There was no hesitation. D'Artagnan darted in the corridor, up the stairs. Aramis was still sleeping in the chair, the baby on his chest.

“Wake up!” the young soldier urged him, nudging his shoulder. The other started, his arm reaching for the sword which was not at his side. The boy fussed in his arms. Aramis looked at his friend for a few seconds. His mind was foggy.

“What is it?”

“Come with me.”

“Where's the Queen?” he asked when he saw that the bed was empty.

“Come with me!”

“All right! Don't shout or you'll wake him up, too. Is something wrong?”

“You may say that.”

Aramis followed, shaking his head to get his bearings. His body was sore, his neck hurt. The Dauphin was pressed to his chest, tiny breaths giving rhythm to his steps. He would have to hand him back soon. He did not want to.

The scene he walked on bewildered him. Nobody was judging him for carrying the heir. Nobody was rebuking him for having spent time alone with her Majesty and her son alone in her room. Nobody was shouting or manhandling him for forgetting his place. Instead, they all looked pained.

His heart stopped, arms tightening around the baby when he noticed Porthos kneeling by the Queen's side. Her body was shaking violently, she was breathing so loudly, it almost sounded as if she was sobbing.

“What's happened?”

Constance came close, looking miserable. She held out her arms, ready to relieve him of the child. Aramis let her do it. Her arms were trembling, her lips soon buried against the tiny royal head, seeking comfort. D'Artagnan held her in his arms.

“Will someone tell me what's going on?” Aramis asked again. Nobody was talking to him. It was unnerving. Porthos looked up at him. His eyes were so dark, but not from anger. They softened when he talked to the Queen.

“He's here, your Majesty. Aramis's here.”

She had recognized the voice. She gathered what little strength she had. It would not be long until she would feel safe. Opening her eyes, putting her hands on Porthos' shoulders, she stood up. Weak on her legs, vision misty, body cold and hot at the same time, stomach hurting painfully. She staggered, as if drunk from the wine she had not swallowed.

Much to Aramis' surprise, she crossed the space between them, hands out until they touched his chest and she collided into him. Soft, small arms grabbed his shirt, holding on for dear life. Her head rested close to his heart. How could she do it? How could she be so forward while his friends were in the room? Despite how much he rejoiced at the display of affection, it was inappropriate and it had to cease.

Then he realized that it did not shock anybody that the Queen was in his arms. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.

“We're not going back to Paris,” Athos stated.

“What? Why?”

“The King would have her arrested and killed if she was to come back.”

“She did not want us to risk our lives again.”

“We've assumed it would be safer to stay away.”

Each of his brother-in-arms provided some information. His heart heaved with each piece of news.

“The King cannot kill her. He cannot kill you,” he added for the woman in his arms. “We'll find evidence of Rochefort's treason and everything will be well.”

Her head shook against him. She was openly sobbing. It was too reassuring to be close to him, just like the night before, in her bed. Danger could not be overlooked but for these few minutes near him, she could imagine everything was fine.

“Nobody will find any evidence. We cannot chance it. The King might not believe us either way. Your son's more important.”

Aramis stared at Athos, not quite trusting that he had heard him correctly. Had he just acknowledged the Dauphin's true parentage? Surely, he had to be dreaming. None of this was occurring.

“I don't understand a word that you are saying.”

“We're protecting her by not letting her go to Paris.”

“But if we don't go back, then we're all....”

“We're already traitors,” Milady reminded him, reading his mind. _We're all dead._

Aramis' arms slowly crept around the Queen's waist, clutching, pressing.

“Then she's not....”

Porthos shook his head to confirm the assumption. _She is not Queen anymore._ The woman he was embracing choked on her cries, fingers gripping the material of his shirt with so much vigor. If she let go, she would lose everything. She had so little left. Lips kissed the top of her head fiercely. She craved more.

“I'll never let anything happen to you.”

“We won't either, Aramis.”

“No, Porthos....”

“Don't start your chivalrous nonsense again,” Porthos hissed. There was no time for petty discussions about attempting to save those who still could be. They were too far gone for any of it now. “We're involved as much as you are. We'll help because it does not matter what the King might say, you're still _our_ Queen, your Majesty.”

The others nodded to confirm that they thought alike. She did not see any of it, her eyes closed, tears streaming down her face, soaking her neck and Aramis's dirty shirt. His scent was oddly familiar. Comforting even. One hand touched her hair, fingers running through the curls. Soothing.

“We ought to at least _try_!” He was confused, he was still half-drowsy, but he could not understand that his friends and the Queen would give up so easily. A part of him rejoiced at the idea that he might be able to spend the rest of his life with the people he loved. This sort of life would not be long. How could he accept it if something was to befall the baby or his mother? How could she agree to forsake her duty?

Aramis thought that her outburst the night before, the slap and the revelation that she was tired of her position, everything had been triggered by their recent intimacy. Was she still in a daze? Was she not thinking clearly? Surely, she would regret her decision in a few days.

“We might have a chance to end all of this. I will not let you make a hasty decision that you might regret later.”

“I.....I told you I did not regret anything,” she whispered, her mouth muffled by his shirt. He doubted the others had heard anything. He had barely heard it himself.

“This is not the same. This is letting go of everything you know.”

“I could not live with myself if we failed and...”

“We might not.”

“You cannot be sure.” Taking a deep breath, she raised her head, looking at him for the first time since he had walked in the room. His hair was so damp it stuck to his face. There was so much sadness in his eyes, her heart clenched. So much pride, so much despair. The hand on her hair settled on her shoulder, solid and determined. The baby fussed somewhere nearby, Constance shushing him.

She ought to go to him, ought to comfort the boy whose very existence had doomed him to a life of trials and worries. Her hands were flat on Aramis' chest. She did not know how to do this. She did not know how to not be a Queen, a princess. How could she ever be anything else? How could she survive on her own? She would not be on her own, she realized. It did not make it easier.

She was casting off all her duties, all her obligations. She used to be the most important woman in France. How could she do this to her country? She had done it before. From the very first second she had comforted the soldier, kneeling in front of him, sharing personal secrets and providing reassuring praise, she had betrayed her country. Could she forget everything to be a mother?

_“I'm ashamed.”_

_“Of what?”_

_“Abandoning the King, the country, everything. This is not how it was supposed to end.”_

_“And it won't. I can reverse it, I swear.”_

_“Aramis...”_

_“Ana...”_

It brought a smile to her face. She may be able to accept the change if she forgot she had had to conduct all her duties in French. It might be easier. It was easier with him.

“ _There might be a slight possibility you could reverse it. If you cannot, what will happen to you? I cannot survive if I know you've died for me.”_

_“It's my...”_

_“Not anymore. You do not have any duty toward me. The only duty we have now is toward our son.”_

Aramis sighed, hands holding her shoulders. Her skin was so pale, her eyes shining, her lips blue from the cold. The others had faded away, although he could discern Porthos cocking his head at the foreign language.

 _“The King would kill him, would he not?”_ She choked on the impossible words. Not her boy, so small, so innocent. Aramis' eyes darkened, his jaw set. It made no doubt.

Nobody was pretending anymore. The child was not the Dauphin for them. Athos had said it loud and clear. Perhaps Aramis could accept this fate for the sake of an innocent boy.

_“I'll never let it happen.”_

_“I am aware. But it is what will happen if we go back, am I right?”_ He nodded. She closed her eyes, forehead resting against him. Her body heaved, strong arms holding her together.

_“Never. It would kill me, if I was not to be sentenced to death myself.”_

Aramis growled at the thought. She shuddered out of fear. She was terrified, of her decision, of going back to Paris, of running away. He kissed her brow, soft but not gentle lips. His hands grabbed her face, forcing her eyes up.

“Is it really what you want?”

“No. I wish it could be different. I wish we could be all in Paris and nobody was in danger. I wish Rochefort had not betrayed us.”

She struggled with her feelings, everything was so mingled and confusing.

“I want him to be safe. I want him to never worry. It would never happen at the Palace. I would always be worried, every single day of his life. But with you....”

“You will be safe. The most devoted servant, do you remember?”

She nodded. She had loathed the conversation they had had after the King had announced she was with child. Aramis had looked so hurt, so defeated. She had cried afterwards, the first of many tears she would shed because of what had taken place in the convent.

“Not a servant anymore. More. You will be more.”

It was something she could live with. An outlaw and a traitor, but a woman giving a man she cherished what he was entitled to: recognition for his son.

“Ana, I.....”

She sounded desperate, hopeful, concerned only with her son's well-being. He was as well. He did not mind dying for his faults, he deserved it. Not the boy. If she could forsake her duty for the love of her son, then so could he. His eyes were strained on her, the effort to tear them away overwhelming.

His friends were not trying to hide that they were listening intently. At least they understood half of the conversation. Tréville was shaking his head. Porthos was looking at him intently, arms crossed, looking both furious and understanding. He nodded. Constance only had eyes for the baby. D'Artagnan looked accepting. He was loyal, if not completely in agreement with the others. Athos had imperceptibly moved closer to Milady, one arm around her waist. She did not seem to mind it.

Aramis hoped one day he would be able to forgive himself for what he was doing.

“Very well, then.”

Three simple words which lightened her heart at once. He gazed into an ocean of thankfulness when he looked back at her. She may be ashamed, it was a huge comfort to have him by her side.

“Thank you.”

“You need not. Always by your side, isn't it what I said?”

He sounded defeated, and it unsettled her. His embrace was still tight, but he did not seem happy with the decision. She was not either. Yet, she could perceive what a future with Aramis might hold. She could find joy in it. Could he not? He could not see it as another mission, because it was not.

“Please tell me you are not doing this out of duty. I don't want you to,” she added weakly when he did not answer.

“I'm not. I'm doing this for your son.”

“Ours.”

She blushed at the French. It was the first time, the first official time she had publicly acknowledged what she had done. Nobody flinched. Tréville sighed, almost bowed then thought better of it, and left the room.

Aramis could not wait for the others to follow. Having an audience was the last of his problems. She was agreeing to a foolish dream he had entertained from time to time, she was letting him be the father he thought he could never be.

His lips were so gentle against her cheek that she sighed in relief. There was no more shame, no more fear, no more betrayal. She tasted salt, unsure if they were his tears or hers. It did not bother her. She was no longer Queen of France, he was no longer a King's Musketeer. They were together. It was all that mattered.

 

 


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter XXVIII

 

Aramis kept his eyes closed, giving her whatever comfort she needed. She was desperate, crying endlessly, sobs choking her for a few seconds at a time. Every time he would try to draw away, their embrace much closer than what was proper, she would clutch his neck tighter. If he let go, he was afraid she might collapse. Her legs were buckling, her arms were trembling. Her fingers were grabbing curls on the nape of his neck. It might have hurt under other circumstances.

She was grieving, acceptance and denial washing over her at the same time. She was going to go up in flames. It was all too much to handle. Aramis was her only anchor, the only tangible reality in her world, the only support she could completely trust. If she let go, she was afraid he might disappear forever.

Time seemed to have slowed around them. There was a heavy silence in the room. It was no surprise that when Aramis opened his shameful eyes, they were all staring at him. They were all concerned for the woman in his arms, judging this relationship which had doomed them all. Constance was pacing the room, rocking the baby who had woken up. The tension around him was making him uneasy.

Aramis felt her shiver once more. Looking around the room, he noticed the blue coat on the floor. As he tried to take a step forward to gather it, she stopped him.

“No, no, no. Don't go.” She was hanging on as if her life depended on it. It may.

“You're cold. You will get sick....Thank you,” he added for Porthos. His friend put the coat on her shoulders. She was not behaving like a Queen anymore, the mask had fallen in a couple of minutes.

It may be their fault, the soldier realized as he saw how she clung to his friend. They had urged her to make the decision to run away, to deny who she was. He could not find it in himself to be sorry for it. It was the safest option. The thought was scary: escaping was safer than confronting their enemies. When it would certainly lead to death of the worst sort, it might be acceptable.

Porthos wanted nothing more than to kill Rochefort for all he had done, ruining so many lives, destroying fates and reputations. Milady might already have taken care of it. They should know soon enough. Such a terrible treason, the Queen and the Dauphin disowned, it would not remain a secret for long. He hoped they would be far away by then.

“I'm sorry, Porthos.” Aramis sounded sincere, staring at him above blond curls. He looked insecure, afraid. Those were not emotions the soldier usually displayed. Nobody was agreeing to this decision gladly, his friend less than the others. There would be time to resent him later, if need be.

“Now's not the time to be. We need to move.”

“And where should we go?” d'Artagnan asked. “You've said it yourself. There are too many of us. We'll attract attention anywhere we'll go.”

“As far as I'm concerned, I do not intend to stay with you lot,” Milady stated. The entire scene was lovely, the Queen buried in her lover's arms, ready to flee out of love. It was a great ending, or beginning, albeit dangerous beyond imagination. How long they would survive, it was not a gamble she wished to make. They might live longer on the road than if they were to ride to Paris after all.

“So that'll be one less person to worry about. Not that you've ever worried about me before.”

Aramis glanced at her as did all the others. She was rubbing her injured arm. He only just noticed she was wearing Athos' scarf. The bruises on her throat were quite dreadful. The soldier might have only wanted to let her retain some of her dignity.

Athos saw his friend looking at him, and held the stare. He did not know what course he would choose. It had been clear during the night when they were still planning to find Vargas and expose Rochefort. Everything had changed in a couple of hours. The Queen -she would always be the Queen to him- required protection, of an even better sort than usual. They could not spare weapons and arms to use them because he had found he might still have strong feelings for his wife. Or could they?

“You've been a wonderful help, Milady,” Aramis conceded. One nod on his chest confirmed that he was not the only thinking it.

“I would have never believed you would become an ally.” Her voice was hoarse from the crying, shaking from the shock she was undergoing. Slowly, she unfolded her fingers, turning around in Aramis' arms, thankful for the firm grip he maintained on her hip. She was aware she did not look like a poised and regal monarch as she turned around to face her saviours. It was a struggle to keep her head up, something which used to be a reflex even hours before.

“Thank you.”

“Ah, well, one does what their heart requires, your Majesty.”

The cryptic reply might have puzzled her, but the two last words sounded like a punch. She flinched, grasping Aramis' hand in the process. Would they ever stop calling her this way? Would anyone but Aramis manage to look past what she used to be? Could she grow used to bearing the title as a name? Could she one day hear these words and not hear her heart break at the same time?

“Should you go on your own? It's a dangerous world out there.”

Milady scoffed, the sound troubling the uneasiness in the room. d'Artagnan found the strength to chuckle. The woman was dangerous enough to take care of herself, even if the Queen had no idea who the former mistress actually was.

“I've been having a more dangerous life before you even met me. I can handle myself.”

“Sure you can. With two good arms. What about with one in a sling?” Athos muttered. Milady rolled her eyes.

“I'll manage unless you....” She did not finish her sentence, letting the invitation hang in the air. Athos would never discuss their personal issues in front of the others, but at one point, he would have to. It was not overly appealing to imagine what it would entitle to care for Milady. She was aggravating when she was valid. What would it be when she was hurt?

Deep in her heart, as she glimpsed at him, she wished he would jump at the opportunity and say yes at once. He would not. He would not change so easily. Athos hardly ever spoke about his problems or his feelings. She was already amazed he had done so willingly the night before in the infirmary. Whatever he decided, and she hoped she would be glad of the decision, he was not going to say anything for the moment.

Aramis had to be the only one who understood what was being left unspoken. Amid his own turmoil, he had seen signs between his friend and the woman they used to despise. He was not sure it was his feeling toward her anymore. Too much had changed.

Holding hands while he was treating her injuries, sleeping side by side, holding her waist, giving her his scarf. Little gestures which added up. Almost admitting that he might love her, the incredible longing in his eyes right now, as she was suggesting that he left with her. Aramis could see it all, because he had often felt the same longing for the Queen, when it was impossible.

Now it was though. Everything was possible. Nothing made sense anymore. There were no social conventions anymore, no duties, no hierarchy. Only allegiance to family and friends. If Aramis had to forsake his old life to protect people he held dear, it did not mean that his friends had to sacrifice their own happiness to watch over them.

It was a slight nod of the head, but both Athos and Milady saw it. They both knew what it meant. It was understanding, it was friendship turning into a stronger bond, it was acceptance. It was Aramis giving Athos the chance to break free from the obligation he believed he had toward the broken woman and her lover.

Athos took his time, letting realization sink in. Their life might not last for long as outlaws, but he had lost much already that it did not really matter. There was one person with whom he may be happy. Not as happy as he used to be; he could never go back there. This life was over, buried with his brother. Milady had changed, without changing. She was still witty, clever, funny, infuriating, and seductive. In her own way. A way he quite enjoyed.

One curt nod was his answer. Aramis looked satisfied. Relieved even.

Milady tried to not sigh in relief. The reaction was unexpected.

“She won't be alone, your Majesty. We'll go together.”

“You what?” Porthos beat d'Artagnan at voicing what they both felt. The shocked howl echoed in the room. Constance stared at him darkly, the baby startled by the shout. Had it really come to that? When he said breaking into smaller groups, he did not expect Athos to volunteer to go with Milady. Was it mere volunteering? It made sense: sitting side by side at the table, small gestures which would have ignited fights in the past.

“But she killed your brother! She almost killed Constance! She...”

“And she saved her life only a few days ago when she brought her here, don't you remember? This is my own life and I will do what I damn please with it, d'Artagnan,” Athos snapped.

The young soldier shook his head, not believing what his friend was doing. It was even more astonishing than the Queen agreeing to let go of everything to run away. However, in the end, Athos was correct: it was his life and now that their future was but a blurry uncertainty, if he wished to tie his existence to Milady's again, who was he to judge him?

“Where will you go?” he asked instead.

“She wants to go to England.” Athos frowned.

“It's a long way from here.”

“I know, Porthos. The further away from Red Guards, the better.”

“It'll be like a second honeymoon!” Milady exclaimed, breaking the tension. Athos glared at her. She smirked back. It was a great effort to force his face to remain stoic and not break into a smile.

Aramis noticed it, though. Everybody else did. Athos had needed the crumbling of their old life, desertion and treason to unearth feelings he believed he had not right to entertain ever again. Some good might come out of their predicament.

Besides, the older soldier had a point: they had to put as much distance as possible between them and those who were likely to chase them. The grip on his arm intensified and he looked down to see the Queen -no, she was not the Queen anymore. It would take time until he successfully thought of her as only a simple woman. It was easier in Spanish because there had been less protocol in this language. She could be Ana with no difficulty. In French, on the other hand....He would manage. It was what she wanted and he had no desire to make her flinch and hurt every time he would address her.

She was studying the scene unfolding in front of her, the exchanges, and she did not understand half of it. The soldiers and Milady had a history, far more important than what she would have believed. They were having conversations which sounded obscure to her. She felt left out, as if she did not belong. She did not. They had never had private discussions in front of her before. Only courteous words and respectful requests, although it had been changing these past days. There had been more open arguments and defying remarks.

Perhaps one day she would be one of them. She hoped she would. It would be miserable if they never saw past what she used to be, what most of them thought she still was. She wanted to be part of them, it was all that she had left. Holding on to Aramis was grounding her, listening to them was comforting if not awkward. One day she desired nothing than to join in and not be seen as an outsider.

“Where will _we_ go?” she asked him.

“Travelling with a baby is an intricate matter.”

“We still have to go as far away as we can,” Porthos pointed. He forced his eyes to advert from Athos to Aramis. Both men were acknowledging relationships which were giving him a headache. It was a pity the bottle of wine was empty.

“I'm fairly certain my farm is in a pitiful state, but I've never gone back to salvage what could be,” d'Artagnan offered. He was leaning against the wall, eyes set on Constance, never moving even as he spoke to his friends. Going back to his father's estate was not a journey he imagined he would make in the near future.

“Gascony is even further away than England.”

“I'm aware, Porthos. But it's closer to Spain. You too would blend in perfectly.” This time he looked intently at Aramis and the woman in his arms.

“I've no intention of seeking refuge with my brother. It would doubtless trigger a war.”

“Of course, not, your Maj... No, that's not what I meant. But you'd be far away from Paris, and you would attract less attention in your country,” d'Artagnan explained. It made sense, Aramis realized. It would be a long travel, it would take days, if not weeks, with the child. She was already tired and sick, but whatever they decided, it would never be easy.

“This convent is the farthest away from Paris that I've ever been before. Is it sunny in Gascony?” Constance inquired.

“Absolutely. And prettier, too.”

“I could live in Gascony.” She smiled at the man she loved. It did not matter where they were going, as long as she was with him. If she could be acquainted with the place where he had grown up in the process, it was better. Her life had known many complications ever since he had walked in it. Intrigues, heartbreaks, violence. Courage, strength, determination. Friendship, love, commitment.

D'Artagnan pushed himself off the wall, grabbed her from behind. His arms circled her waist, trapping her and the baby in his arms. Constance was certain one day soon, she wanted another newborn to take Louis' place, one that would be hers. Theirs.

“What do you think?” Aramis asked, hand rubbing her hip in comfort. He would not make a decision for her. She looked from d'Artagnan to him. One of her hand rested on his chest, because he was warm in spite of the cold air, and touching him meant she had not lost everything yet. However, her mind was a little too overwhelmed to make more tremendous choices.

She looked lost, unsure, unable to form coherent words. Her eyes darted from one man to the other, stopping briefly on Constance and her son. Aramis kissed the top of her head once more. It was out of instinct. It was unfamiliar to be able to do it with an audience, but he could get used to it. One part of him was screaming to let go, but he ignored it. There was no need to do that anymore. Her name came effortlessly.

“Ana? Gascony? What do you say?”

“I suppose it is as good an idea as anything else. I haven't been to Spain since...” _Since I have left for my wedding._

She shuddered. The King might want her dead, it was his duty to act as he did. She was betraying wedding vows by escaping. Vows she had already broken in the past, in the worst way possible. If she did not regret what had happened with Aramis, it may be time that she realized that she could not regret anything else. Perhaps after everything had settled down, she would manage it. Her husband may never have loved her, he had been her friend. If Milady was correct and he indeed did not want to sentence her to death, it was the right thing to do to abandon him and become an outlaw.

“I have not seen Spain in years. It would be a joy to go back.”

“Then you better start teaching me because I will not stand around not understanding a word of what is being said,” Porthos said sternly to Aramis. “You are driving me mad already. No offense, your Majesty.”

She waved a hand to signify it was nothing, eyes closing at the title. Deep breath. No more sobbing. She was making a fool of herself.

“You don't have to come with us, Porthos.”

“And where else do you suggest I go? You would not last one week without me to watch your back, idiot.”

Aramis shook his head, a small smile on his face. Truth be told, he was grateful his best friend would be with them. Until when, he had no idea, but he had to redeem himself in Porthos' eyes. If he wished to protect Aramis and the people he held dear, then he would not object to it. He knew what he was doing. Porthos had always been keen to protect his family, his brother-in-arms. There was no hesitation to extend this protection to the woman he respected so much and her baby.

“Thank you.”

“Don't mention it.” Porthos clasped Aramis' shoulder, forgetting for a second who was close by. She smiled at the fond gesture, even as it shook her body a little. She was not used to such familiarity. One small bow was all the apology Porthos gave her. She did not require more, although she raised an eyebrow.

“Do we have an understanding, then?” Athos asked. “Your Majesty?”

“Yes, yes, we do. Stop using this title.” Her voice was sharper than she intended. If she was not the Queen, there was no need for social hierarchy either. She could not pretend she was an aristocratic lady above simple soldiers. It would take some training but they would be her equals in the end. “Please?” she added.

“I cannot make promises.”

“We'll try. Shall you take your child,....Anne?” Constance struggled on the last word. It burned in her mouth. It sounded so wrong, _felt_ so wrong. Her cheeks flushed with shame. Often, she had entertained the foolish hope that the Queen might see her as a friend. Now, they may have the chance to grow closer, and even though it seemed wrong, it was an exciting prospect. There was always a bright side to a desperate catastrophe.

It did sound wrong to hear the other woman use her proper name to address her. She did not mind when Aramis did it in Spanish. In French, though...There were so many rigid rules she ought to forget and cast off. It was something she had asked for, another battle with her inner self. She would manage. She always did. Anything that had burdened her, any problems thrown at her, humiliations and shames, she had bore it all in Paris. She would do it again.

Overseeing the headache, the sore chest, the painful stomach, she held her head high and smiled. She broke away from Aramis' embrace, swaying a little until he steadied her, and she took the baby in her arms.

“Thank you, Constance.”

Her eyes strained on the baby. She did not trust herself completely to hold him while she was troubled. Her grip was so tight, yet her son did not seem to mind. His tiny fingers were already reaching for the crucifix on her chest.

Aramis was so close, and they could have been the perfect picture of a happy family if they had indeed been happy. Nobody was happy for now. It was a bittersweet situation, a sinful one, but from now on, they would share an endless sinful life.

He may have failed his duty as a Musketeer, he would not fail his duty to his family.

“There's no point in leaving before the rain stops,” Athos decided. It was only the middle of the afternoon, but the clouds were so heavy that the room was growing dark already.

“We'll leave tomorrow. We all need to rest.” Nobody argued with this. If they were all feeling like him, Aramis supposed they felt sick and oppressed by the new situation.

“It's your life and you'll do as you damn please?” Milady repeated after she was left alone in the room with Athos. Aramis had half-carried the son and the mother upstairs. D'Artagnan and Constance had probably gone to stare lovingly at one another, for all she knew. Porthos had gone to keep watch with Tréville and inform him of their latest decisions. Facing the rain was better than staying alone in the room with Athos and the woman he had chosen to run away with.

Athos glared at Milady. She was grinning at him. They were standing so close she only had to turn to put her hand on his chest. It was oddly distracting to have her fingers stroke above his heart.

“Do you mind?” he taunted.

“Not in the slightest.”

“Good.”

“Now, kiss me.”

“Shut your mouth.”

“Not a chance.”

 


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clash of genres for the inspiration behind this chapter. I may love Musketeers, I do love some bad boys and cars, aka I'm head over heels with Fast and Furious.

* * *

So let the light guide your way

Hold every memory as you go

And every road you take

Will always lead you home

It's been a long day without you my friend

And I'll tell you all about it when I'll see you again

 _See You Again_ (Wiz Khalifa - Charlie Puth)

* * *

 Chapter XXIX

 

Aramis was glad to notice that most of the horses had had plenty of time to rest since they arrived at the convent. It would make the first day of riding easier. It was still raining lightly, yet they could not delay any further. Everybody had been on edge the entire night, each passing hour possibly bringing Red Guards closer to them. They may have been wrong, there may have been no one coming to search the premises. They could not chance it.

They would have to go in the fog, hoping that it would lift and that sunshine would replace the rain soon. In the courtyard, it looked like a regiment going out to war. So much agitation, so many horses trampling the ground in excitement, so many people preparing their departure. He had been ashamed when the nuns had offered so much food for the road. Athos had agreed to it, thanking them profusely, then giving most of it for the baby and his mother.

Glancing at the entrance of the building, she was there, the child held tight in her arms, her heavy coat replaced by Aramis' own cape. The coat was too royal, too expensive to pass unnoticed. They locked eyes and he smiled to reassure her.

When he had carried her back to her room the previous afternoon, she had already cried so much that she could not shed another tear. They had sat on the bed, his arm around her shoulder, while she kept on kissing her son's head, cheeks, every part of him she could reach. It would take a long time before they both came to terms with their decision. At least they could rejoice in having their child with them.

The intimacy they had shared helped. When they spoke, when they touched, it was less restricted. There was nothing he did not allow himself to say or do to relieve her tension. She was used to stressful situations, used to stay poised and dignified, and so was he. Parts of their hearts and minds were hammering at the weak wall they had erected to hide their love and affection. It had been crumbling down in pieces for a few days. It was all but non-existent after they had agreed to run away. So many changes in such little time. Overwhelming, terrifying, exhilarating.

She had refused to let go of him, even when he had proposed to find some food. If he left, she did not trust her reaction. He kept her calm by his caring behaviour, the sweet words and comforting gestures. She never wanted to see him leave. The only time she did so was when she had to nurse her son once more, and she was ashamed of doing it in front of Aramis.

It had hurt more than in the morning. It had been more gratifying.

Every time she had woken up to nightmares, Aramis was there to hold her together. As she smiled back at him in the courtyard, watching him prepare the horses, it was obvious that he had not slept much. He had looked tired for days, ever since they had arrived at the convent and even before. His burden was too much to handle. She was sorry for it.

Constance stopped at her side, fastening the coat Marguerite had given her the night they escaped the Palace. In spite of her bruised face, she was not overly frightened by what may lie ahead. She had been in worse situations, and she knew how to handle a sword and a pistol. D'Artagnan's teaching may have been rudimentary, but it had saved her life a couple of times. Her lover would always be next to her to protect, and Tréville had decided to go with them.

There was nothing left in Paris for the former Captain either. He was still furious at Aramis for destroying the Queen's reputation and putting the entire kingdom in danger. It was better if they did not travel together.

“They'll do everything to keep you safe,” Constance said softly.

“I know.” And she did. They had saved her countless times in the past. If she was alive, it was thanks to these five men, fighting, moving mountains to battle off danger.

They were moving in perfect synchronization, there was no need to talk to know what they had to do. Weapons ready, horses saddled, uniforms straightened, Musketeer pauldrons nowhere to be seen. Tucked away in bags. They could not discard them altogether.

“All set,” d'Artagnan stated after checking his stirrups and patting his horse fondly. His heart heaved when he turned around to face the three other soldiers. Athos was putting on his gloves, Porthos was putting on his hat, Aramis was buttoning up his coat. Three friends he had made when he least expected it. What a long way from wishing to kill Athos to avenge his father's death to splitting up to save one of them.

“You'll likely reach Lupiac days before us.”

“We'll find a safe place for the Queen to stay and then we'll see what's next.”

“First we have to actually get there.”

“We will, Aramis,” Porthos said. His best friend was the most worried of them all. Porthos was not. There would be danger, there may be encounters with foes. These were prospects he craved.

“Prevent her from speaking too much when you're in public and you should be fine,” Athos advised. Her accent, her intonation, one word would give her away. She may have renounced the title, her upbringing was not something she could forsake in a matter of hours. Even her countenance looked too regal for her own good.

“She's aware.”

“All right, then.”

“Look after yourself, will you?” Porthos muttered, clasping Athos' shoulder.

He looked up at his friends from under the brink of his hat. It would be strange. They had been a family for so long, relying on each other. They had spent years together, and he was leaving them. Whatever England may bring, he would not be alone. He was glad for it. He may also be looking forward to it. Milady had spent the night teasing him, but under the jests and the laughter, there had been the faint underlining of relief and expectation. A new life to erase the past, make new memories, make amends. Fresh start.

If she could muster the will to change, Athos would muster the courage to enjoy happy days with her.

He clasped Porthos' shoulder as well.

“I'd be more worried about you. Travelling with a baby? That should be a sight to witness.”

“I'll tell you all about it when we'll see you again,” Aramis promised. Porthos glared at him, but patted his back nonetheless. Athos doubted it. He did not allow the dreadful thought to overwhelm him. One day they _might_ be reunited.

“The terrible weather will draw you back here in no time.”

“That's likely to happen, indeed, d'Artagnan.”

“You'd be _so_ moody. It's a comfort that we won't be there to suffer from it.”

“How will you cope?”

“Beer and whiskey, Porthos. I've heard they've got many strong spirits on this horrible island.”

d'Artagnan ducked to avoid the slap aimed at his head, laughing freely. It broke the uneasiness, and his three companions followed, until they were all embracing each other, one great hug to give one another strength, courage. One powerful hug to say good bye.

“One for all?”

“And all for one.”

“Always.”

Constance smiled as they kissed each other, brotherly love knowing no boundaries, no distance. No hardships would ever come between them.

“I believe it's time for me to leave,” she said after d'Artagnan had motioned for her.

“May God watch over you.”

“Don't fret for me, your Ma...Don't fret for me.” Constance gave the other woman another reassuring smile then thought better of it and reached forward to embrace her. It was awkward yet friendly. She kissed the baby's head gently. Small affectionate gestures that his mother craved and hoped would be more frequent in the future. Carefree behaviour. No need to worry that protocol might be broken.

“You have been an amazing support, Constance. You've done so much for me, for us,” she added, looking down at her son. “It will never be in my power to thank you enough.”

“There's no need for it. I'm happy with d'Artagnan. And we'll meet again very soon.”

They could not travel as such a big group. She would go with Tréville and d'Artagnan and the others would take a different path. Besides, with the child, it would take them longer. They were bound to halt more.

“I believe you will have many things to teach me once we are reunited.”

“It will be my pleasure.”

They shared another hug. Parting was as difficult for them as it was for the soldiers. They eventually broke apart when d'Artagnan came to them. Each of the men kissed Constance good bye. Aramis slipped his arm across her waist while she watched her friend and the two former Musketeers ride out. He looked down when she sighed.

“Ana?” One word to lift her spirits. She smiled at his frowning face.

“It is always a bitter feeling to watch dear ones go.” Lips pressed to her temple.

“Then you will not weep for me, I suppose.”

Nothing would change Milady's mind about her choice of clothing. She would never agree to wearing a nun's shirt so she had had to retain the dress stolen in Paris. The arm on the sling was hidden beneath her travel cape. They had argued endlessly while preparing the horses because Athos did not trust her on a horse injured and had wanted her to ride on his mount.

They were leaving with two.

“Everyone here has my eternal gratitude. You included.”

“May it make our ship go faster then. I am not overly fond of sailing.”

“And yet you're the one who settled on England.” Aramis grinned. Milady patted his shoulder as if they were close friends. Perhaps they were. He could not say anymore.

“I like to live dangerously.”

“I should know. Don't kill anyone.”

“I could give the same advice.”

“Thank you, Milady.”

“Always my pleasure to help hopeless lovers.” She smirked. There was a gnawing at Aramis' heart that she might be playing them, but there was so much to worry about already that it did not matter. Athos was beginning to trust her, and he could defend himself if need be.

“If you're quite ready?” Athos' stern voice echoed around them. Milady rolled her eyes, curtsied, more to mock Aramis than to be polite, then turned around sharply. “Good bye, your Maj...Madame.”

“I pray this is not farewell for ever, Athos,” she told him, letting him kiss her hand one last time. She had watched the men said good bye earlier. They simply nodded to one other. One slap on Aramis' arm and the other soldier was gone.

Her chest heaved again. Pieces of his life were tearing apart. She rested her head on Aramis' arm, the baby moving in her embrace, curious and not tired. There was much agitation around him so it was a huge source of wonder.

“One day, you will have to explain what their actual connection is.”

“It's a long story.”

“I imagine we will have plenty of time on our hands.”

She always had had plenty of time on her hands. At the Palace, even with her duties, she never did many things. It took her so long to get dressed and ready to appear in public. Parading and listening to the King in silence were dull occupations.

She had hardly any knowledge of what commoners did during the day. They had to work, serve more fortunate people. What did they do in the countryside? Work in the fields, tend to the house, make clothes, cook. She had not been trained in any of these trades. It was doubtful that Porthos or Aramis could do it either. It would be a blessing if they reached Gascony safe and well. She would worry about the rest there.

“It you request stories, I will have more entertaining ones to tell.”

“That would be nice. You know so much about me and I barely know anything about your life. It seems unfair.”

“We'll have to rectify that, then.” Aramis could hear the sadness in her voice, which had been there ever since she had taken the decision to run away. It hurt him more than the actual act of escaping as traitors.

Another kiss on her cheek. Her eyes closed briefly. The baby turned his head. The soldier kissed it as well. There was such a level of intimacy that he did not think he could handle more. It overruled any feeling of guilt he also underwent. His son. Not his wife. Never his wife. The closest to a family he would ever have.

He was going to perish in Hell for all the sins he kept on committing. It was the last of his concerns.

“Your Majesty?”

“Marguerite.”

They both turned around at the weak voice. The governess looked as tired as they were but not as ashamed as she used to be. Aramis could not be angry with her anymore. It was mostly his own fault if she had been involved after all. He smiled at her, even though she did not have the strength to reciprocate it. The soldiers were scattering because of her, all running away to save themselves. The Queen had to forsake her title, her position, the life she had been brought up to lead.

Marguerite would have never imagined it would come to that. She would have never imagined her own life would end up like this.

“Are you sure of your decision?”

It did not trouble her when Marguerite reached forward, soothing for the last time the baby's hair. Despite her betrayal, she had been an extraordinary carer, a devoted helper.

“Absolutely. It is peaceful here. And quiet. I am certain it is the perfect place to atone for my faults. Everyone is extremely nice and benevolent.”

“You do not have to do this.”

“I want to, Aramis. I may not stay here forever. However, I....I need this. I need to think back on what I've done and make amends.”

He reached out for her hand, squeezing the cold fingers. He was so proud of her. There she was, the woman he had shamelessly used for his own selfish desires. She had saved Constance and his son. She was not attempting to return to her old life. She was promised to a bright future and a fulfilling marriage. She would have made her husband happy, Aramis was certain of it. She was sweet, caring, loyal. To err was human. They had all done it.

“Take care of him,” she asked him, enjoying his touch while it was possible. She would miss him, she would miss the Queen, she would miss the heir.

“He's the apple of my eye,” he assured her.

How could she have been jealous, Marguerite wondered as the Queen raised her head at his words, thankful and blessed. He was not in love with the monarch, he was in love with the woman. Marguerite admired her as well, and she could never have shadowed her in Aramis' heart. It was too obvious to ignore. It must have been torture to hide the feelings for all these months in Paris. At least now they were free to show them, even if it meant being outlaws.

“We should go, Aramis.” Porthos advised. “The earlier we leave, the more distance we will be able to cover.”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.” _No_. She was not. She was not certain. Her legs were shaking. She would not show it.

“Will you be able to ride a horse?” Aramis inquired, assessing her face. Her eyes were flickering, her jaw was set. She was afraid. She was determined to remain strong nevertheless.

_“Nothing will happen to you. May I tell you why? Because I'm here, Louis's here, and Porthos will slaughter anyone who even shows the slightest disregard to you both. Trust me.”_

“What did you say about me?”

“Only the truth. That you will not let anything happen to them.”

“Over my dead body. I do love some action, your Maj....Anne.” Porthos scrunched his face at the name. It was raw on his tongue, a blasphemy, yet a direct request. The others and the nuns might have called her 'Madame', she was going to travel the length of the country with him. On such a level of familiarity, she would only allow -no, ask for- her name to be used.

The combination of Aramis' reassuring words, Porthos' humourous tone and the use of her name were enough to convince her to hand the baby to Marguerite one last time. She was hoisted on her horse, reins so firmly held that she was grateful she could keep her silken gloves, if only when they were not in public.

The governess was crying as she handed her charge to Aramis who cradled him carefully under the cape he was wearing. Whose cape it was, he could not remember. Perhaps Tréville's. His eyes had thrown daggers at the soldiers when she could not see it, but this entire escape plan was only to keep her and Louis safe. The former Captain may one day forgive him. He hoped so.

One last glance at Marguerite, holding herself together on the threshold of the convent and she was gone. Out on the fields. Towards the unknown.  

* * *

 

_No matter where we are, whether it's  a quarter mile away or_ _halfway across the world , you'll always be with me, and you'll always be my brother._ Dominic Toretto. 

* * *

 


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter XXX

 

The first day, they stopped three times on the road, to take care of the baby. She was self-conscious and blushed when she had to step in the forest to nurse him. Her two companions did not mention it. The look on Aramis' face when she joined them afterwards was always the one of a proud and admiring man and it was sufficient to make her confident.

The first night, they only halted at an inn when the night had grown too dark to continue. Her entire body was sore, aching from nursing, clutching the reins and riding like a man. She had hardly done it before escaping from Paris.

The place was crowded with commoners, the smell would have made her sick if she was not so tired. They were all so scared that someone would recognize them that it took her a long time to fall asleep. They had asked for a big room with two beds. A fire was already lit and they dried their clothes by it. The soldiers gave her one of the beds so she could settle with her son. They wanted to take turns to watch for potential enemies. They ended up keeping watch together because neither one nor the other was able to rest.

They sat on the floor by the fireplace, silent, until she was awoken by a nightmare and Porthos all but shoved Aramis in bed with her so he could calm her down.

The baby fussed but did not cry. She was sweating, thrashing, then Aramis put his arm around her, hand flat on her stomach, lips pressed to her neck, and she settled down in a matter of minutes. Porthos knew in this moment that this was not a simple flirtation for his friend. He had always set his sights too high, the highest he would ever reach, but this was pure love, pure dedication and nothing would shake it.

It seemed indecent to stand by while Aramis wiped her tears, whispered reassuring words in Spanish, stroked her hair.

It stopped raining during the night. She kept her head down at all times, never spoke a word when there were strangers around them. The innkeeper asked her “husband” if they wished to purchase some food before leaving. She cringed at the words, found it difficult to breathe, tightened her hold on the baby. Posing as a married couple with their son had appeared to be the most plausible subterfuge if they were asked any question. It hurt.

Aramis dismissed the idea too quickly for it to be polite. They had not much money to spare, plenty of food from the convent, and he wanted to whisk her away as swiftly as possible. They rode out in the sunshine. Only a couple of miles later, she felt faint, stopping in the middle of the deserted road.

“Your Majesty? I mean....Anne. Are you feeling fine?” Porthos turned his horse around when she shook her head. She looked terribly pale.

“Help me down,” she managed to whisper.

Once she was on the ground, she broke free from his arms. She was light-headed, her breathing was laboured. Aramis and Porthos eyed her with concern as he passed the baby to his friend. She knelt in the grass, one hand on her chest, the other on her mouth. This was utterly inelegant of her, but she could not prevent her stomach from heaving. She was sick.

Her throat hurt, there was a strange taste in her mouth. Such a hard life was the opposite of what she was used to. The pain made her cry in spite of herself. There was one hand on her shoulder as Aramis knelt next to her, passing her his skin so she could wash her mouth.

“I apologize,” she said, drying her eyes. He sat her down gently on the side of the road, his arm firmly around her shoulders. Her hair was sticking to her face.

“There is absolutely no need to. Have you eaten anything this morning?”

“A little, yes.”

“You must eat more.”

“I'm not hungry.” She was too distressed and shaken to do anything but ride, nurse her son and sleep a few hours.

“We're going to ride for hours, Ana. It is very tiring. I insist. Porthos, she needs to eat,” Aramis called out. The other rummaged in one of their travel bags, balancing a cheerful child in one arm.

“I'll be fine, Aramis.” She choked on some of the words, pain shooting through her chest with each breath she took.

“No, you will not. You should look at yourself. You're not used to this and _this_ is fine. We understand. But if you want this to succeed, you have to talk to us. We're a team now. You're hurting. Tell me.”

“It is not in my habit to complain.”

“I'm aware. I'm asking you, so it's the opposite of a complaint. It's an explanation.”

“My bosom hurts.” Her face went up in flames, but Aramis only kissed the top of her head, put locks of her hair behind her ear. She was hot. “It's to keep Louis healthy and I find it extremely empowering to be able to do it. I'm raw from it, and it's draining me of any energy I might have left.”

“Being a mother is not easy, Ana, but you are doing a marvelous job. Look at how happy he is.” Porthos had come to them, the baby deeply interested in his leather uniform, fingers clutching his coat, smiling. It brought a smile on her face, too, the first real and genuine one since they had made their life-changing decision. She enjoyed how he kept calling her by her real name. Each time it was easier, more familiar, coming quite close to being normal.

They only started again once the soldiers made sure she had eaten so much she felt drowsy. Her horse was tied to Porthos' who kept the baby with him while his mother rode in front of Aramis. Her head lulled back against his chest a few miles after they set out.

Early in the evening, they rented a room in another inn. The smell was still horrendous, assaulting her, but it was quieter. Her face was dirty, her dress which used to be white had turned brown from dirt and mud. Louis' clothes were in a pitiful state. Left alone for a couple of minutes in their room, she took them all off, wrapping him in Aramis' cape so he would stay warm. Porthos came back with hot water given by the innkeeper's wife.

She was thankful for the chance to wash her face and her hair, braiding it awkwardly. She had never done it herself. The baby quite enjoyed his bath, and Aramis was greeted by earnest laughter, and Porthos looking at the woman bathing her son, grinning. It warmed his heart, shadowing the worry that nursing the child was putting a strain on her. She had slept on the road, she looked better. She resembled a simple woman, and not a monarch at all.

“I've brought warm soup.”

She looked up at him, eyes tinkling with joy, problems forgotten for a while. The baby sent drops of water on her as he played. She laughed once more, kissed his cheek sweetly, and wrapped him in a towel which resembled a rag.

“I'm famished,” she confessed. They all sat down at a small table, the baby on Aramis' lap. He had explained to her that nursing a baby was a really tiring task so combined with the anxiety of the entire situation, it was no wonder that she was feeling sick. He would have to take better care of her as long as she took better care of herself. How he knew so much about children while she could not help with the most mundane tasks of life was another source of shame for her.

Although both men disagreed, she insisted on washing Louis' clothes, her hands ending up wrinkled and sore. As she fell asleep that night, she was proud and satisfied. There were no nightmares, only sound and profound slumber.

Two days later, money started to become an issue. Renting rooms at inns, buying hot meals so she would recover from her shock, it came at a cost. She gave her pearl earrings to Porthos in the afternoon so he could attempt to win some funds at cards. They were a part of her old life, she had worn them almost everyday at the Palace. They would not fit her new lifestyle, whatever it may be.

She waited with Aramis and the baby in the village's church. Huddled together in a side chapel, bells ringing every passing hour. It was comforting and peaceful. She had given him the crucifix back, and he held it in his hand while he prayed. Eyes closed, lips moving silently, her hand in his, their son napping. Head buried against his chest, hiding her face, as the priest walked past them.

Lips in her dirty hair, lips on her dirty cheek, lips on her crackled lips. The first actual kiss they had shared since leaving the convent. It should have been a blasphemy to do this in such a holy place. It was not.

Her health was improving, Aramis tried to worry less and less about it. She ate plenty, slept more peacefully, smiled at her son, smiled at him, raised eyebrows whenever Porthos would make crude comments or swear, then blushed when she understood what he meant. They were growing less careful with their words and conduct in front of her. Their friendly banter was slowly replacing the endless suppositions about what could befall them.

They were always focused, eyes darting in side alleys, stopping as people would pass them on the road or in the street. She was so filthy, even if she had put on the second dress offered by the nuns. Smells of the countryside, of the outdoor, so foreign from closeted gardens and perfumed corridors.

“I've got news,” Porthos said, sitting down heavily on the bench behind the couple. He looked on edge. “News from Paris.”

Her heart quickened, her hand gripping Aramis' more. She was clueless about the name of the village where they were at present, about the part of the kingdom they were in. She could only tell it was in the Western part. It was impossible to say how long it had been since they had left after Rochefort's attack. She had lost count of the days.

“There were merchants in the tavern. 'Were in Paris only a couple of days ago. Rochefort's dead.”

“What's the charge? Do they know who did it?”

“They could not say, Aramis. The rumour is that he was murdered, quite horribly. Your renunciation has been made public.”

She bore the news silently, simply nodding. Aramis turned around completely to face his friend. Porthos was angry as he remembered the unpleasant words the card players had used to talk about their former Queen, criticizing and making disgusting remarks. If he had not needed the money he was shamelessly stealing from them, he would have started a fight. She was nothing like what they assumed.

“The King has sent soldiers all over the country to hunt you down. And us, incidentally. They check everyone at the Parisian entry gates. Going back would have been like signing your own death warrant, Anne.”

The way he used her name comforted her a little. He was always frowning and usually avoided calling her out. It was not the moment to worry about a breach in protocol. It was no more.

“You made the right choice, Ana.”

“Yes, _we_ did.”

Her body was trembling slightly, but she managed to control her emotions better. World-shattering news were becoming routine for them. In a sense, the First Minister's death was a relief, even though she had refused to acknowledge the thought before. He had betrayed her, attacked her, treated her as if she was nothing, a mere plotting woman who did not deserve respect. He had been a danger looming above her son, above her husband -her marital situation was an issue she did not wish to dwell on yet. He had attempted to kill the King, poisoning him. He would have probably murdered lady de Winter if she had not acted first.

“You mentioned parties sent to the country?” Rochefort's demise was a fate Aramis had expected. Milady was too good an assassin, even when she was herself in danger. The royal decision to scout the length and breath of France was unsurprising either. Knowing it made it more real.

“Yeah. Staying in inns might not be the best course of action.”

“Louis needs warm places to sleep.”

“I'm aware, Aramis.”

“We're so far away that nobody around here would remark her. Half the people in Paris have never seen you close enough to recognize you correctly anyway.” Besides, she did not look like herself anymore. As far as appearances went, they should be quite safe.

“News such as this one travel fast. If Red Guards begin to appear everywhere, people will pay more attention. We should stray from villages.”

“To go where?”

“Farms, isolated hamlets. Perhaps travel by night.”

Aramis was not fond of this development, although his friend was being the most sensible one. It would be safer. It might be more suspicious to the farmers they would seek refuge with.

“We've been incredibly lucky so far, you have to admit it.”

“I know, Porthos. But the innkeepers mainly care about our money. Who gives it to them is of no concern. Farmers will be more vigilant. They will doubtless inquire about us, ask questions. We all know that if you talk, Ana....”

“You could teach me,” she offered. “Teach me to counterfeit the way I speak.”

It was late already and against all their instincts, they decided to take one last room in town, with the money Porthos had gathered. He gave her back the earrings, never telling her that he had lost them at one point before he could win them back. She may not have minded, yet she held them for a long time before storing them in her bag.

Aramis was cleaning his weapons by the fireplace in their room, preparing for whoever they may soon meet. His son was lying on his blanket next to him, playing with some toy Porthos had craved out of wood the previous day. It was an unexpected yet wonderful feeling to openly think of him as _his_ son. There were times when he quite did not believe it himself. It was exhilarating to not have to refrain if he wanted to hold him close, talk to him -always in Spanish-, take care of him.

She wished to do well, but she had been kept away from his care when he was the Dauphin. She could rock him, lull him to sleep, but for the rest, there had been a myriad of nurses, as well as Marguerite. It bewildered her that Aramis had the knowledge required to handle a baby. He never told her his skills were almost non-existent and acquired from growing up in a large family, from living a rather normal life in the city. How ever basic his skills, they were more useful than hers.

Being taught was something she greatly enjoyed and appreciated. She would soon be the equal of many mothers all around France. She was a fast learner, and Aramis could not help but grin as she repeated words and phrases after Porthos, trying to mimic his intonation. His friend did not manage to keep a straight face either. Hearing her say “Yeah” or mumbling syllables instead of pronouncing every single one slowly was indeed a sight to see.

It reminded her of the French lessons she had had to take when she was younger and about to become Queen of France. These lessons with Porthos, secluded and illegal, were more entertaining. Not wanting to let a favour unrewarded, they reversed positions after a while. The soldier had insisted that he should know some Spanish, but he changed his mind after her lesson had begun. The language felt strange coming out of his mouth, he struggled with some bizarre sounds. Aramis burst out laughing at one point, the baby babbling in response.

“It's not nice to mock him, Aramis,” she rebuked him, arms around her legs, knees pressed to her chest.

“Yeah, Aramis, don't mock me.”

“I'm only saying, this one will be more proficient in Spanish and he's only a few months old,” Aramis answered Porthos' smirk, gathering the baby in his arms. He moved the toy in front of his eyes, drawing away every time the child would reach out to grab it, eliciting babbles. _“Yes, you will be a faster learner than your uncle Porthos, won't you?”_

“What did you say about me?”

“Listen to your teacher and you may come to understand it one day.” His leg was shoved roughly, the back of his head was slapped. It did not stop Aramis from losing his good temper, rather out of place considering the situation they were in.

There was an interesting and pleasant dynamic developing between the four of them. Less awkwardness, better ease. Less resentment, more understanding. She rose, barefoot, to kneel close to Aramis, her son now interested in the crucifix around his father's neck. The rubies shone in the flames. She kissed the top of Louis' head.

“He called you his uncle,” she explained to Porthos. In spite of the danger, in spite of the dreadful news he had delivered in the afternoon, these were the small delights of her days: changes which seemed so right, so normal, they cast away the shadows.

Aramis was pleased to see that his best friend was left speechless for a few seconds, until his face softened. He unceremoniously stole the baby from the other's grasp.

“Is that so? Then by all means, let me act like one. I'll go and teach him some card games. I'll take first watch.”

It was a wonderful sight to witness, the strong soldier settling down with a tiny child, trying to divert his attention from flickering lights to the cards, only to end up with him chewing on one. It was certainly not clean, she worried. None of them had washed for days, nothing was clean around them. She was living in dirt and dust for the first time. Her fingers and her skin itched. She would grow used to it, like the rest. As long as they escaped whoever might be looking for them.

“I believe you have found his new governess.” She turned around, smiled, put her hand on his knee and sat down so close to him, it surprised him. Rochefort's passing comforted her in the thought that there was nothing for her in Paris anymore. There was no point in wondering what may have happened if they had found Vargas, if they had gathered evidence, if they had attempted to clarify matters with the King. She might not have finished grieving for her old life, but she was beginning to adjust to her new one.

“He doesn't need one anymore.” Aramis smiled back at her relaxed French. She was a better student than his best friend was.

There was such pride in his eyes that this time, she was the one leaning in to kiss him. Chastely on the cheek. It was a start, and it was enough for him to understand that she did not resent or regret their decision to escape together.

 


	31. Chapter 31

 Chapter XXXI

 

After spending one week on the road with the former Queen, Porthos started to relax around her a little more. It was extremely awkward to have to address her as an equal, to sleep so close by, to watch her discover what real life actually meant. Everything bewildered her: crowded streets, people not moving out of her way respectfully, dogs barking at their horses, drunk men staggering at midday, dubious meals, coarse language.

The soldier knew that even if one day he ended up considering her a friend, a companion he had made in time of danger, when their lives were uncertain and on edge, he would always see the monarch in her. A woman so strong, so determined, so willing to put her feelings to the side to protect others that she had almost ridden back to her death. How could he not respect her when she was so resolute to go out of her comforting position to save her son, save Aramis, save him?

There were still tears and sad looks, flickering memories of an old existence turned to ashes, crumbled and stampeded.

The journey was tiring, more for her than for the men, but she hardly ever complained about it. She was growing more talkative every day despite the threat hanging over their heads. Rid of decorum, she timidly grew more confident with Aramis. There were more smiles, more laughter. It was refreshing. Almost better than travelling only with soldiers. There was not a day that Porthos did not worry about Athos, probably already in England. It was uncommon for him to pray but he often did it these days.

The first night they reluctantly asked for beds at a rather large farm, it was already dark. She was holding herself together as best as she could, the baby cheerfully gazing everywhere around him. There was a large assembly at the table, and after producing coins, the three riders were given some seats.

It had cost her, but she had not washed at all, hoping that she may pose as a commoner more easily. One hand on her shoulder reminded her that she had to slump on her chair more instead of sitting with her back straight. Aramis sat next to her, strategically shadowing her from the candlelight.

He answered the questions about where they were coming from, where they were going, inquiries quite common when strangers appeared at your doorstep. A distraction from a life which hardly changed otherwise. She barely listened to the lies coming effortlessly from him and Porthos. They could indeed charm their way anywhere.

The dinner they were given was warm and filling, better than what they could eat at inns. Everyone was friendly, there were children playing then slowly falling asleep in odd places: crouched by the fireplace, curled up in a chair, lying at the bottom of the stairs. Nobody rebuked them. She realized it was the first real time she interacted with subjects in such close proximity. _Former_ subjects. She had to look like the women in the farm. She shivered.

“You've got to be cold. Only this dress,” their hostess said, looking sternly at Aramis as if it was his fault. She was not cold; she was frightened. Puzzled to realize how much she had had to forsake and change in a matter of days, puzzled that it may not be a problem because Aramis was with her and she felt safe.

“Come with me.” She froze on her chair, fingers busy putting the blanket back on her son so they would not tremble. One side glance at Aramis who had also stiffened at the words. Porthos was sitting on the other side of the table. He drank his cup of wine to hide the feelings he shared with his friend. One of his hands came to rest on his thigh, ready to grasp his sword if need be.

The two men were always interacting with strangers whenever it was needed. She had almost not said a word since they had arrived, apart from simple greetings. Hiding her accent was one thing, not being polite was another. It was not how she had been brought-up.

Despite the sheer fear freezing her blood, hesitating too long would become suspicious. It was her duty to protect her son; it was the reason why she had agreed to run away in the first place. Louis fussed a little as she handed him to Aramis, soon settling in the familiar embrace.

 _Do not smooth your dress when you stand up, do not touch your hair, do not fidget with your hands, do not hold your head too high, do not keep your shoulders straight, do not simply graze the bannister, hold on to it firmly._ Small but significant details about her behaviour which had been explained to her since they had fled the convent. Every situation they were in was an occasion to learn how to disguise her royal upbringing.

The moment she disappeared at the top of the stairs, Aramis had to remember to advert his eyes so he would not stare at an empty spot for longer than it was acceptable. He pushed plates and cutlery away from the edge of the table and his son's curious fingers. When he had expressed hesitations about avoiding villages to favour farms, these were the problems he had had in mind: Anne having to deal with strangers on her own.

His legs were bouncing, thoughts about how he would protect the child if he had to fight to protect the mother swirling in his head. Eyes darting back and forth, unable to settle on anything, until Porthos kicked his shin under the table.

Without the white dress -which had not been white for days, she discarded one of her last ties to her previous life. She had nothing left of what had been given to her at the convent, this safe haven where her world had been rocked countless times. The haven where she had grieved, be frightened, but also given the chance to finally experience what it meant to be carefree and to openly stand up for herself, for her family.

Her hair was still an awkward braided mess on her shoulder, but the garment provided by the charitable woman was warm, so was the shawl she clutched to her chest. It took an effort not to wince in pain. Nursing her son was painful, even though she was growing used to it. Her entire body hurt from the journey. She could barely remember what it felt like to not be in pain. Her hostess had remarked on it.

Anne had never laced a corset in her life, and voicing it would trigger questions and suspicion. Every woman in the country knew how to do it. Instead, she mumbled about nursing, Porthos' lessons coming back to her easily amid the anxiety that she tried not to display.

“Ah, children, bane of our existence, aren't they? Is it your first one?” One nod to confirm. _Use facial and body expressions as often as possible._ A smile to ease the tension. A sigh of relief stifled as the corset was tossed on the bed.

“Cute little rascals when they're so young, isn't that right? Enjoy it while you can. They turn into monsters once they grow old. I've got the three downstairs that you saw and....” Endless chatter lulling her, calming her.

“....grand-parents happy to see him, no?”

“Yes.” The question jostled her back into the conversation she was supposed to have. There had been talks when they had arrived about a business bankrupted in the North and them travelling southward to their family.

“My mother passed away a few months ago. It's lonely without her. It's not every day we have visitors like yourself. There. You should feel warmer.” She did.

“Thanks.”

“What did you say your name was again?”

“Marie.” _If you are asked, use your second name. Do not use the Spanish version. They are looking for a Spanish woman. Use the French equivalent._

“A fitting name to be travelling with a babe, don't you think?” She nodded. It was impossible not to smile when the other woman sounded so delighted, despite all the troubles which seemed to make her life. How could Anne complain when she witnessed how people seemed to find joy in small matters?

Aramis breathed heavily once she was back with them. Nothing appeared to have gone wrong. He held on to her hand as she gathered the baby in her arms. Porthos nodded, his mouth full.

At an inn or in a farm, they would not be completely out of danger until they were reunited with d'Artagnan, Tréville and Constance. Those people may not mean any harm, if they made a mistake, they would be discovered. Porthos knew what they would do if it should happen, and he was not fond of it. Slaughtering Red Guards was one thing. As far as he was concerned, _this_ was not murder.

“We should leave at first light,” he suggested when they were by themselves upstairs. They would have been content to sleep in the common room. Their hostess would have none of it. Her house was not very large, but the children would crowd with their parents. There also was the room left by her late mother.

Porthos' suggestion was accepted. Aramis could not wait to hold her in his arms as soon as the door had closed on them both. Their son wriggled between their two bodies, yet he only let go when he was certain she was really there, and that nothing had happened while they were separated. Although it had only lasted ten minutes, it had been incredibly difficult to not have her close to him, to worry that something would go wrong.

“I'm fine, Aramis.”

She was. She had been afraid but it had been natural to speak with the other woman, or rather listen to her and nod. It was less natural than with Constance, but it was the first time someone had talked to her as an equal, having no idea who she really was. Who she used to be.

“This is bound to happen more and more. I will grow used to it. I doubt she suspected anything.”

“Good. You were incredible.” She smiled, putting her son down gently in the basket provided by their hosts. They were so generous with them. Kindness could be found in the oddest places.

“Hardly. I was shaking inside.”

As she stood back up, she caught the glimpse of appreciation in his eyes. He looked more rested these days, albeit still deeply troubled. Less conflicted about their situation and their choices. Farther away from Paris and its problems every passing day, better closure and acceptance. He might have even been more worried about her than she was while changing clothes.

It was the first time they were alone without Porthos. Her thoughts made her blush, her blush made him cock his head.

“What is it?”

If she could behave like a normal woman, may she have the right to seek comfort of the most intimate sort with Aramis? She had done it before, but it had been a forbidden act then. She was still the Queen at the time. It had been affection laced with despair and guilt. An escape from reality. None of these feelings were in her heart now.

She was not used to instigating this type of relations. She was not supposed to crave it. Back at the Palace with the King, it was more an hindrance. With her soldier, though...She twined her hands around his neck. His lips met hers halfway, his smile spreading on hers. She might not have to voice what she desired. Aramis was so attuned to her, to her emotions and her reactions.

Warm hands on her hips, clutching the fabric of her dress. Fingers grazing the nape of his neck, grasping locks of hair. He savoured the kiss, so sweet and redeeming after his fright. He might never get used to this: kissing her whenever he wished to, holding her in his arms. Actions which could kill them, but in this moment, it did not matter.

His legs hit the side of the bed. They tumbled on it, Anne flushed against his chest. She winced. Aramis turned them around effortlessly, his lips leaving a hot path down her neck, gratified by a happy sigh. One bold move, a leg bent to push him closer. One deep groan was his answer, eyes closing.

Shy fingers creeping down his back, one hand lifting his shirt to feel the hard skin on his stomach. One shudder. Lips assaulting hers, muffling the gasp of surprise and pleasure. One hand lifting the new dress, fingers on her bare calf, leaving goosebumps.

It was slow, it was intense, she felt overwhelmed by his presence, so close, yet never close enough. The roughness of a beard not trimmed for days -weeks- on the fragile skin of her shoulders. A twinkle in his eyes. The door was closed on their turmoil. Nothing else mattered.

The flush of her cheeks, eyelids fluttering closed, skin heating up at his touches. She was there, with him, willingly. Always willingly. She used to be so far away, so distant. Aramis could not believe his luck. Amid the distress, the treason, the death sentence, they were together. He had never been ashamed when he was with her. He did not have to be. Now less than before.

She was his, his _Ana._ The rigid and obedient Queen turned outlaw because of him, because of an attraction which should not have existed. How thankful he was that it bound them together. A timid monarch turning into an audacious woman.

Hands tucking at his shirt until it was discarded to the floor, fingers touching the scars on his chest, on his back. A shiver as he gathered her dress in his fist, fingernails on her thighs. A devilish smile against her naked flesh as they were replaced by his lips. An inelegant moan.

“I'm sor...

“Don't you dare say it,” Aramis muttered, looking up at her, one hand on her face, the other clutching the dirty bed cover. “Not with me, Ana.”

“It's difficult. I'm not...It's not....” It was complicated to think properly when he was invading her senses. There might have been a war raging on outside, it would not have stopped his grin.

Aramis propped himself on his arm to look down at her.

“Yes?”

“With the King it....”

“I'm not the King, Ana.”

“I know,” she said quickly, seeing how his eyes had darkened. She brought one hand up to stroke his chest, wishing to apologize for whatever mistake she might have made. “This is much better, Aramis. It's unsettling in a.....wonderful....”

“Excellent.”

Their life was so uncertain, it could tip over at any moment. There might not be other occasions to be alone in a long time, and he did not intend to waste time being compared to someone else, be it the King of France. He was forcing himself to see Anne as a woman and not a Queen, even though it was sometimes proving intricate.

“Aramis? Kiss me.” Her voice was firm, her fingernails digging in his shoulders. The kiss left her lips bruised and when his hands were back on her hips, pressing down and unlacing her dress, she did not try to stop the moans and whimpers.

Aramis was anchoring her down, erasing the past, creating new memories. The safest place in her new world.

She was awoken by loud knocks on the door of their room. The blanket had been drawn on her, but the bed was empty. Spanish words flew towards her from the floor: Aramis talking to the child. He scrambled to his feet to go face Porthos.

“Didn't we say first light? ….. You're half-naked,” Porthos remarked, adverting his eyes so he would not see anything improper in the small room. His friend looked unashamed, bouncing the baby in his arms. He closed the door.

“Aramis, do you really _think_ it's the right conduct when we could be attacked at any time?”

“She practically begged for it! And you know me.”

“Yes, I do. That's the problem.”

“If she requests comfort, who am I to deny it to her? I can't imagine that rejecting her may help.” Porthos rolled his eyes. He was already fully dressed, ready to depart. His mission was to protect the woman, not to chaperon his foolish best friend.

“Oh yes, it must have been a real ordeal for you. Get dressed. We're leaving in an hour.”

“Yes, Sir!” Porthos glared at him, stomping down the stairs, throwing his hands in the air.

She was glowing as Aramis hoisted her on her horse, refreshed by the night and comforted in knowing she could interact with other people without them suspecting something was amiss. She had thanked their hostess profusely, reaching out to embrace her. She was growing accustomed to the smells of the countryside, even if she wrinkled her nose from time to time.

It was a beautiful day, they were advancing toward Gascony at a steady pace. However, Porthos was sullen on his horse as the farm grew smaller behind them. She did not inquire about his problem, knowing well enough that she was the cause of it.

“I apologize, Porthos. I did not think about the consequences last night,” she said, sitting down next to him once they had halted to eat, some hours after. The weather was beginning to warm up, and she was using the shawl as a new blanket for the baby. Aramis was keeping watch at the edge of the forest where they had sought the shade of the trees.

There was a large chunk of bread in his mouth, so he dismissed her apology with a wave of the hand. His anger had vanished hours ago. They could not resent each other when they depended on one another so much.

“It's not your fault. Nothing happened. You can do whatever you want to...., Anne. Honestly.”

“Yet, you are upset.”

“I'll be fine.” He meant to sound resolute and stop the conversation. She could still hear the resentment in his voice.

“Porthos, I....,” she started as a shot echoed around them. Food scattered at their feet as Porthos toppled her to the ground.  


	32. Chapter 32

 Chapter XXXII

 

Aramis jumped to the side, the bullet hitting a nearby tree. Splinters flew everywhere. Where were they? It was so sunny, he should have seen if someone was coming toward him. Although he was annoyed and troubled by Porthos' disproportionate reaction and silent treatment, he would always remain focused. Keeping watch was too important.

He reached for his musket, listening intently. The baby had started to cry somewhere behind him. He wanted to go to them, inquire about them by himself. Porthos would be more than capable of protecting them. He had done so in the past.

The child bawled in Porthos' ear, startled by the big man shoving him to the ground. She was shaking as well, ears ringing from the deafening shot, heart pounding in her chest. Was it the end? Porthos had to grab her shoulders roughly for her to snap out of her shock.

“Stay here, make him stop crying if you can. Take this.” He handed her a small dagger. Her trembling fingers closed around it. She was speechless. Holding her son close to her chest, she fell to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks, rocking back and forth to comfort Louis.

Porthos darted to the edge of the woods, skidding to a stop next to Aramis. His eyes were moving back and forth, peering in their surroundings. Then they heard the unmistakable sound of a full gallop. Almost a stampede. More noise than they made with their three horses.

“No quarter?”

“If we manage to keep one alive long enough to question him, it could be helpful.”

“All right,” Porthos agreed, rolling his shoulders, ducking as a second bullet grazed the top of his head.

He did not have to look behind to know that Aramis was already preparing to shoot as well. Breaking into a run, he started toward the six riders coming fast from the top of the hill. One well-aimed shot and one who was in the middle of the line fell from his mount.

Red capes, uniforms the soldier despised as much as the persons wearing them. The horses were coming dangerously close to him. His sword in one hand, another knife in the other, he lunged forward. There was not an ounce of fear in him. This was a battle, something he was used to. Today more than ever, his life depended in the outcome. Porthos had never lost a fight in his life, and this one would not depart from this tradition.

The blood pulsating beneath his skin was driving him. Decisions were made at the last second, his body was very aware of everything around him, of any assets he might use to defeat his opponents.

He stopped abruptly in front of a horse. The animal reared, its rider half-losing his balance. Porthos pulled him down completely. There was one vain attempt at cutting his leg, the Red Guard lunging at him. Porthos heard a sickening cracking noise as he smashed his fist in the man's face. Blood flooded at their feet. Another shot was heard over the racket. He did not see if it had hit anyone.

His first foe too stunned to retaliate, Porthos swirled around, but not fast enough to avoid the sword aimed at his arm. The blade struck the leather of his coat, stinging. The soldier roared, flinging his other arm, the knife striking the Red Guard's hand. He screamed in pain as he reeled back and fell in the tall grass. His horse did not stop and passed Aramis who was running up the hill to help his friend.

The shouts intensified as Porthos crushed his opponent's leg, applying so much pressure, bones broke. He sat heavily on the other's chest, delivering blow after blow until his face was so tumid he ceased to fight back, head limp.

Someone crashed onto Porthos' back, his vision blurring for a couple of seconds. His sword had been tossed to the side while he was dealing with his victim. A few seconds of weakness was all the third Red Guard needed to hammer Porthos' shoulder. He bellowed, yet the pain was not strong enough to prevent him from jerking his head back, hitting the other in the face.

Aramis was on him as well, his sword thrusting into his side. The Red Guard gargled as blood poured out of his mouth. Porthos was back on his feet, clearing his head, grabbing the forgotten sword. Back to back, the two soldiers surveyed the remaining two riders who were circling them.

“Well, I think we've found what we were looking for. Did you really believe you could escape, Musketeer scum?” The Red Guard spat on the ground, drawing his pistol and aiming it straight at Aramis. He was breathing loudly, gauging how quick he may spring on the rider before the bullet could hit its target.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Drop your weapons.”

Porthos scoffed, pointing his sword at the ridiculous man. Pain shot through his shoulder, but he paid it no mind.

“It does not matter if we kill you now or in Paris. You should be aware.”

“What about you? Does it matter if we kill you now or in five minutes?”

Aramis felt Porthos take a step back as the horse came closer to them. He moved to grab the reins, but the rider had let his foot out of his stirrup, and pushed against Porthos' chest. He took a couple of ragged breaths. The pistol was so close to his head, he had to actually pause and consider his options.

“Where is she?”

“Where is who?” Aramis asked back. There was a pistol dangerously close to his head as well. He had fired all his weapons, and there was no time to load them again. Glancing nearby at the body of a dead Red Guard, he noticed the musket strapped to the corpse's belt.

“Don't play stupid with me, _Aramis_. If you're here, she must be here.”

“I have no idea who you are talking about. Do you, Porthos?”

“Not a clue.”

The rider made the mistake to fire his pistol close to Portho's foot to frighten him. The weapon unloaded, the soldier lunged on the horse, hitting its side strongly, sword lashing out at the red cape and the leather uniform. The horse reared and kicked, throwing the man off balance.

Aramis took the chance to roll in the grass, covering the short distance toward the musket. The second rider aimed, shot. Aramis hollered as the bullet grazed his thigh, burning his skin and sending daggers of pain straight to his heart. Even injured, he could not let any of them find where Anne was. Crawling, he took hold of the musket, but froze when he heard the baby cry.

They were not so far off from the edge of the forest and the multiples shots, the shouts, the trampling and neighing of the horses, everything must have been heard. These were sounds belonging on a battlefield. His son was not used to it. Aramis' head jerked back toward the trees. The rider who had fired at him had heard the bawling, too.

The horse seemed to be flying away. Perspiration was on his eyes, pain clouding his mind.

Aramis aimed, shot, missed.

Sheer fear overruled the pain. He stood up, wincing, tried to run after the rider. His leg could not support his weight. He fell to his knees after only a few strides.

“Porthos!” he screamed, terrible thoughts flashing in front of him. His friend was in a close fight with the other Red Guard. He pounded his head one last time, his feet crushing his chest, pay back from the previous attack. Never missing a beat, he caught the reins of the closest horse, forcing it to chase the man galloping toward the woman and the child.

There were horrible sounds coming to her. She was crouching behind some trees, her son unable to stop crying. In spite of her will to be strong and focused, she was also crying, albeit silently. How had they found them? There had been this fleeting moment last night when she had entertained the idea that they would be safe now that they were hundreds of miles from the capital city. She should have known better.

The baby hiccuped. She kissed the top of his head, smoothing his hair, shushing him as best as she could. It was ineffective. Terror surrounded her. She would fight for her life, fight for his life. It made no doubt that she could never outdo Red Guards if her two companions were indeed fighting soldiers sent by the King.

Amid her distress and worry, she did not realize that the dreadful noises were growing closer. When she heard the trampling of the horse, it was already too late. Her fingers closed on the small dagger Porthos had given her. Frightened beyond understanding, she retreated further in the forest, seeking better camouflage. She stumbled on a root.

As she opened her eyes, she noticed a man jumping down from his mount, heavy boots in the dry dust. His hand was on the pommel of his sword, a disgusting smirk on his face.

“Your Majesty,” he mocked, curtsying with disdain. “What a joy to find you unharmed. I'm here to take you back to Paris.”

“Don't touch me!” she shrilled, scrambling away from his greedy hands. She had to at least try. Gathering what little courage she had, she lunged, poking one gloved hand with her weapon. He laughed wickedly, caught her wrist, pressed down hard until she whimpered. The dagger fell.

The baby bawled louder when she almost dropped him. In spite of the pain, she held on to him firmly.

“You're making your bastard a nuisance. Make him stop or I'll stop him.”

“How dare you? How dare you threaten an innocent child? What sort of monster are you?”

He knelt next to her, dirty hands grabbing her shoulders so roughly, she cringed. His foul breath washed over her face, but she did not close her eyes.

“I've got orders. I'm sure the King would not mind if _he_ did not return to Paris. Good riddance. He should not even be there. This is what happens when you debase yourself and let dogs put their dirty paws on you.”

She stared back as he hoisted her up, hands so solid on her arms they would leave bruises if she lived long enough to see it. Once she was on her feet, his fingers so close to her son, she kicked him as hard as she could, her foot colliding with his shin. He slapped her across the face.

“You bitch! I should kill you on the spot! Might be a better alternative than what is awaiting you anyway.”

She could taste the blood on her lip, her head ringing from the blow. Even when Rochefort had assaulted her at the Palace, she had not been so mishandled. How could he not treat her with respect, despite her faults? No matter how grave they were, she was still a woman, a fact that did not seem to worry the Red Guard. Her eyes stung with desperate tears.

Choosing a different course of action, and to avoid the kicks she kept on trying to make, he yanked her hair. She winced in pain, a distraction long enough for her assailant to take hold of the baby's blanket, ripping it, only to put his filthy hands on her son. Her fingernails clawed at his face. There was blood on her hand after he had let go, reeling back.

There were loud curses, almost muffled by the baby's cries, but even though her body was trembling so much, she would not let go. She could have tried to run away, yet she was perfectly aware that she would never outrun him. Turning around, shielding the child from their enemy, she was terrified that he would choke on his sobs. The lost dagger was within her reach and she held on to it desperately.

She heard the distinct sound of a sword being drawn from its scabbard. Deep breaths, fury in her eyes in spite of the despair of her hopeless predicament. Head straightened, she swirled around so fast her surroundings blurred. She had no idea what she was doing. Her only certainty was that he would most certainly murder her son if she did not attack.

One hand on his face was hiding the damage she might had caused. Fears which should have frozen her were her encouragement to thrust her small weapon. Her head pounded from the shock of her collision with the Red Guard. She prayed she was not harming the baby further, and felt strangely rewarded as she hit her victim. Probably not enough to end his life, yet sufficient to make him drop his sword.

“Her Majesty has learnt some tricks, hasn't she?” Her heart sank when she realized she may not have wounded him a lot if he could still mock her. He wiped the blood from his face, checked his side where she had struck him. “Who would have thought a cold Spanish whore like yourself could be so ferocious? What a pity.”

One pistol drawn straight at Louis and she lost whatever strength she had mustered during her weak fight. Both of her arms covered her son's body, drawing more cries as she pushed his head against her chest.

“Please, please,” she begged. Tears clouded her eyes, but she could still notice the nasty look on the Red Guard's face and it was making her sick. The King had sent wolves and heartless creatures to murder a baby. “He's innocent. Kill me instead but not him. I beg you, not him.”

“Oh, we'll come to you soon. Don't worry.”

All of a sudden, he whirled his head around as another horse thundered through the trees, crushing bushes. Porthos did not even stop the animal before diving on the Red Guard, sword in hand. Sword on his back, more effective than Anne's dagger. The Red Guard fell head first, dropping the pistol.

Porthos was on him, stabbing again, until the body beneath jerked one more time before stilling.

A high-pitched sob, legs giving out, and she was on her knees. Porthos roared, did not take his weapon back, and instead crouched in front of her. There was no hesitation, no second thoughts as he pulled her in his arms, her head on his shoulder, and her body heaving.

“Oh my God, oh my God...,” she chanted, one hand clutching his arm, making him wince. The pain he had forgotten was slowly crawling back under his skin during these few seconds of quiet. His heart was pounding, his breathing was laboured just like after a battle. It had been worse than a battle. She had been moments away from being murdered, and he was so relieved he had made it in time.

The baby's shrieks were overpowering everything else. Porthos put his hands on her back, willing to lessen the trembling.

“I'm here, you're safe now. You're safe.”

One tiny fist made its way out of the strong grip the soldier had on Anne and hit her face. Reluctantly, she let go of Portho's comforting embrace. Louis looked unharmed, which was a wonder considering how he had just been mishandled. There were hiccups and gasps for breath because his trouble was so deep he could not calm down.

Porthos sat her down on the ground, one arm firm around her shoulders, and they stayed in this position until the child's cries quietened a little. There were moments when she would gasp for breath as well, not quite believing that her assailant was no more. She had seen death before, but never like this. She had never been treated as if she was nothing, a mere hindrance to be rid of.

She was a traitor, she knew this. She was also aware of the fate awaiting those of her kind. However, she had never considered that it could be so brutal, so shameless. She could not see clearly anymore, there were so many tears. If Porthos had not been there, she would have most certainly collapsed.

Her face hurt, her head hurt, her entire body hurt, and she would have been sick if she had been strong enough.

“You're safe, you're both safe.” Fingers on her chin to assess the damage. A low growl as he witnessed the bruised cheek and the bloody lip.

“It's nothing.” Her voice was hoarse.

“How about him? Can I?” She nodded her assent. Gently, he gathered the baby in his arms, but there was no blood on him. Apart from the flushed face and the balled fists thrown in the air, he seemed fine, too. Porthos allowed himself another sigh of relief, sitting down to regain his senses.

He wiped his brow, hissed as pain shot through his shoulder. It was not bleeding though, and he would recover from it. He would have never imagined one day it would come to this: rocking the woman who used to be Queen of France in his arms. A woman so poised and dignified who was simply a shattered heart and mind after the attack.

How the Red Guards had found them was a mystery they would have to solve later. Being discovered was a possibility they knew could happen at any time. They had been prepared for it, and fighting was not an issue for the two men. It had been so close, though. So close to death and failure.

She hiccuped, hair brushing his face, the baby battling in his arms.

“Aramis...Where's Aramis?”


	33. Chapter 33

 Chapter XXXIII

 

Aramis tossed the useless musket to the side to sit down heavily in the grass. It was eerily quiet around him after the vigorous fight. His leg was throbbing, his entire body was extremely hot, and he would have taken his coat off, if he was not more preoccupied by his injury. There were locks of his hair stuck on his brow by perspiration. He dabbed his eyes with the back of his hand, then took off his gloves.

There was blood soaking the material of his trousers. He cursed, pressing down on the wound to stop the bleeding. More curses as a stabbing pain shot through his leg, reverberating everywhere under his skin. It was not the first pistol wound he had suffered, yet in their current situation, it was not the most pleasant predicament he could find himself in.

He breathed short quick gasps, trying to settle his heart. He could not help but keep his eyes strained on the edge of the forest where Porthos had disappeared in pursuit of the Red Guard. Aramis hoped and prayed that he would save Anne and the baby from danger.

There was a groaning behind him, and Aramis turned around sharply. He scrambled to his feet, wincing and breathing deeply to stop the dizziness. His bloody hand closed on his sword. He felt so furious and enraged at the attackers that this time, it would not trouble him if he did not show them mercy. He could not afford it.

Limping, squinting to remain focused, he approached the only Red Guard left alive. Porthos had battered his face so forcefully none of his features were recognizable. There was a large gash on his leg. Aramis was at least thankful his own injury was somewhat cleaner. He sank to his knees, grabbed the soldier by his collar and shook him roughly.

“How did you find us?”

The other dared scoff, blood soiling his teeth as he grinned. He coughed when Aramis shook him again.

“How did you find us? Answer me!”

“You think you're so....clever. Musketeers....I've lost so much money against Porthos, and it's not every day a black man appears in a little country village....”

More coughing, blood dripping on the Red Guard's chin, spraying a little on Aramis' hand. He wiped it on the other's uniform, then released his grasp. It had seemed a good idea at the time. It was the only option to obtain more money anyway. Porthos could hardly pass unnoticed.

“Who else knows? Have you told anybody else?”

“Whether we have or not is irrelevant. You'll never make it far away. We'll always catch you in the end.”

“But have you told anybody else?”

“You're going to kill me. Why should I answer your questions?”

Aramis hissed, one hand on the other's throat, closing in until there were fingers clutching at his wrist. He let go.

“It'll be swift if you cooperate. It'll be torture if you choose otherwise.”

“You'll be the one on the receiving end very soon.”

The Red Guard had gained enough strength to spit at his assailant. His head reeled back in the grass as Aramis struck him. His knuckles hurt, old wounds from the convent opening once more. He ignored them. He closed on his victim's throat, his unharmed leg pressing on the other's wounded thigh. There were howls of pain, but he did not let go for a long time.

There was so much anger in him that he would have killed him on the spot. His question had not been answered yet, so he decided to give him one last chance.

“Have you told anybody else?” he repeated, so close to the Red Guard's face, he could smell the fear on him. More coughing and shaking of the head, fingers clawing at the grip on his throat.

“There was no time. We were six, we supposed it would be enough.”

“You've always been pitiful strategists. Nobody else knows we're here then?”

“Only us.”

“Not anymore.”

Aramis let go of the Red Guard, retrieved his sword and without a second though, thrust it straight into his heart. The soldier gasped for breath a couple of times, his legs thrashed before growing still, glassy eyes looking at their murderer.

Aramis rocked back on his heels, the pain too unbearable. He lied down on the grass, the only sounds around him being his own breathing and his ears ringing as the heat of battle was wearing off. Turning his head to the side, he assessed the damage. Corpses scattered, some horses roaming in the open field. Evidence they would have to dispose of, if they were all safe and well.

He was incredibly tired, from the sudden attack, from the fight, from not knowing where his family was. From his wound.

The blood was spreading on his trousers, an ugly brown stain. Willing his hands to steady, he untied his blue sash, relocating it on his left leg. It would stop the bleeding until he could better operate. How he would do it was a mystery.

His head jerked up as the sound of a horse coming up the hill. Aramis braced himself on his hands, staggering once he was on his feet. His weight could only be balanced on his right side, and it was excruciating.

The sight of Porthos riding back was a comfort. It was a relief to see him help Anne down the mount as well. His heart unclenched at the knowledge that the three of them were alive. Aramis dropped his sword, dropped to his knees, unable to stand longer than a few seconds.

She was holding her son with all her might, Porthos' arm circling her waist so she may walk better. Her legs were too weak for him to trust the woman on her own. Her entire body was still shaking, head snapping at any little noise. Scanning their surroundings, Porthos checked that all the Red Guards had been dealt with, that there was no more menace looming above their heads.

So many horrible sights to witness. When she had insisted to come with him, he had agreed reluctantly. He could not leave her alone in the forest after her attack, yet it looked like a massacre in the field. It was. She had been so shaken already, he only wished to protect her more.

Anne broke free from Porthos' supporting arms as soon as she noticed Aramis. It did not matter if he was in the middle of broken bodies, or that there was blood on him, from his face to his hands. He was alive.

Porthos clutched the child tightly, relieved that Louis had somehow settled down now that it was quiet around him. He did not imagine she had enough strength left to run the short distance separating her from his friend.

She inelegantly reached his side, kneeling in front of him, arms around his neck, pulling him close. Aramis did not fight it. He did not want to. His head fell on her weak shoulder, soothing fingers in his hair. She was crying.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” she whispered over and over. The first time she had said it in French, and nothing could stop her from repeating it endlessly. There was no more powerful truth. It washed over him, filling his heart, his lungs, his mind. Mending worries.

“Are you unharmed?”

“I'm fine. I'm so glad you are as well. Oh, my God, Aramis...” Her hands on both sides of his face, forcing him to look up so she could kiss his cheeks, his brow, his lips. He flinched at the bruise on her face. She was alive, she was safe, the one who had hit her was probably no more.

“The baby?” he managed to ask between ecstatic kisses.

“Shaken, but apart from that, he seems well,” Porthos answered. Anne dried her eyes before standing up once more. It did not matter anymore if she was not acting dignified. These men had saved her countless times, and she had been so close to losing everything today. She did not want to worry about what Porthos might think. She was a woman seeking reassurance for the people she loved and held dear, and he definitely was one of them.

“Thanks to you.”

“Keeping you alive has always been my most prominent mission. We have to move as far away from here as we can, Aramis.”

“The one I interrogated said they didn't tell anybody else they might have found us. I suggest we bury the corpses first.”

Porthos paused for a moment to ponder the idea. Salvage weapons, bury the bodies, unsaddle the remaining horses and let them go. Leave no trace of what had happened.

“All right, then. Anne?” He could not worry about calling the woman by her name. The turmoil they had just suffered had made them grow past this. He passed her the baby, and she bounced him as Porthos started to gather swords and pistols.

Aramis put one hand on the ground to push himself up. He wobbled, one arm shooting forward to find his balance. Anne's relief was instantly replaced by pure fear as she saw how uncertain his walk was, then the blood spreading on his leg, blue sash turning darker.

“You're hurt!” she exclaimed. Porthos dropped everything to rush to his friend's side. Aramis winced as fingers probed his injury.

“Pistol?”

“Yes.”

“Has the ball...”

“Still in, I'm afraid.”

His own anxiety was mirrored in Porthos' dark eyes. His shoulders were grabbed roughly, Aramis struggling to keep his head steady. The pain was overwhelming.

“I'll help.” Aramis smirked.

“I was strongly hoping you would. Do we have any alcohol?”

“The cognac we bought from the farmers.” Porthos scrunched his face at the thought of using it to clean the wound.

“I'll purchase more next time an occasion presents itself.” It was Porthos' turn to smirk. He put Aramis' arm around his shoulder to help him walk.

“Not here, though.”

“The forest.”

“Yes, and we'll need to build a fire. I'm aware it could draw attention but...”

“I wasn't going to say anything,” Porthos interrupted him. Even though each step was a trial, Aramis smiled.

“Let's go then.”

“What are you talking about?” Anne asked, following the two men, one limping, the other half-carrying his friend. They did not appear to be as frightened as she was by the injury, however dire it seemed to be. They were soldiers, they may be used to such situations. She was not, and her distress might not be settled until she was certain Aramis would be safe and well.

“If we don't take care of the ball, the wound will be infected,” Aramis explained, wishing he did not have to scare her more than she already was.

“Here?”

“We've been in worse situations, trust me.”

She looked at him with bewilderment. It might be true. They must have seen dozens of battlefields, been injured many times, and they had always recovered. She had seen the scars on Aramis. He held out his free hand when he saw how puzzled and distressed she was. She grabbed it firmly. She never wanted to let go of it.

The soldiers had suggested that she retreat further away in the woods. Yet, there was no place where she would not hear his screams of pain while they took care of Aramis' injury. The last hours had shed the remaining thoughts that she was still a monarch so there was no point in protecting her from dirty or undignified task. If only by an oral agreement, she had tied her life to Aramis' and she was determined to help him any time he would require assistance.

Exhausted from his crying, the baby had eventually fallen asleep, draped in Aramis' cape, settled between their travelling bags on the dusty ground so he would not be further injured in his sleep. Anne refused to use the shawl the Red Guard had defiled with his filthy fingers. She kept on throwing anxious glances in her son's direction while she gathered small branches to build a fire.

It was the middle of the afternoon, a fact Aramis was glad for. It was not usual for him to have to operate on his own body. It was bitter to remember the times Athos had done it for him. He hoped Milady and him had not suffered from an attack.

Porthos was examining the medical equipment his friend constantly carried, equipment which had saved their lives so many times in the past. His shoulder was still sore from the severe blow received during the battle, but he would not let it prevent him from assisting Aramis.

“Drink up,” he ordered, holding the bottle of cognac. Aramis cocked his head, hair matted and wet on his brow.

“Excuse me? I fail to see how being intoxicated will help me.”

“It's either that or I knock you unconscious, which will help even less. Drink up.”

The alcohol burnt Aramis' throat, strong and cold, warming his insides. He cursed as Porthos tore his trousers, exposing the wound to his scrutiny. He drank more.

“Leave me some,” Porthos muttered, snatching the bottle and using the blue sash as a compress, used it to apply alcohol to the injured flesh. Aramis hollered and whimpered, slapping his friend's arm.

Anne was growing used to Porthos' coarse language, but she had never heard Aramis talk so foully. She paused for a second to realize she did not mind. She watched as Porthos lit the fire. Aramis was clutching her hand, enjoying the few moments of peace before he would have to face unbelievable pain.

Her head was on his shoulder, her other hand was stroking his chest. It astonished her that they were all still alive, and memories of what had occurred made her tremble from time to time. Vile words, violence, the idea that the King would not blink if the child was killed. He used to think fondly of him, of a royal Dauphin who was a miracle baby. It was her fault, Anne was aware. She had deceived her husband, yet now, she was not sure she wanted to consider him as such. Dauphin or not, bastard or not -and the idea made her cringe-, no child deserved this fate.

Even when she was Queen and she had been forbidden from acknowledging who the real father was, Aramis had never turned from her. He had always been loyal and faithful, fulfilling his duty although it broke his heart – her heart.

At the Palace, every time something had gone wrong, it had been her fault; the King was always quick to blame her, or her Spanish heritage. She would bear it in silence, as her station demanded it. The last weeks, at the convent and on the road, had taught her differently. She was tired of being blamed, tired of blaming herself. She had not chosen to be wed to Louis XIII, but she would _damn_ well choose to spend the rest of her life with Aramis and their son, no matter the circumstances.

“Bite this,” Porthos instructed, thrusting a large piece of wood at his friend. Aramis had showed him how to take the ball out, yet, it had become obvious that he would not be capable of doing it himself. Being a surgeon was not something Porthos had done in the past. They would not ask Anne to do it, though. She was busy holding Aramis' hand and wiping his brow with the dirty rag ripped from the bottom of her dress.

Aramis bit hard on the wood, eyes closed and his forehead pressed against hers. There were tears on his face as soon as the scalding metal touched his bloodied flesh. Porthos willed his fingers to steady, because the muffled screams coming from his patient were making him doubt his skills.

She winced a little as Aramis gripped her arm fiercely. It triggered a bad memory from the Red Guard's attack even if this time it was done for completely different reasons. She kissed his cheek, tasting salt. Cool fingers on his neck.

He felt oppressed, daggers piercing his leg, his chest, every single part of his body. His heart was hammering violently, ears ringing from his own shrills and the blood rushing underneath his tingling skin. Her attempts to comfort him in Spanish were of no use. His leg shook under Porthos' ministrations. It felt as if he was branded with hot iron, his flesh charred beyond repair.

The alcohol might have helped a little, it was not enough to keep him conscious. His stomach was heaving, and as he bit once more on the wood between his lips, he felt light-headed. Too much perspiration, too many sickening waves rushing throughout his chest. His eyes were closed and did not re-open after Porthos had successfully extracted the ball.  

 


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter XXXIV

 

Aramis' body twitched, eyelids heavy from unconsciousness. A numb pain awoken as he moved. There was a light weight pressed on his chest, but it was not the source of his suffering. His leg throbbed. Surrounded by fog and drowsiness, he had somewhat forgotten about the wound. Slowly, his fingers probed the flesh of his thigh. Hissing to muffle cries of pain, he felt the protuberance. Awkward needlework. Sticky fingers from dried blood.

The soldier was hot, but as he tried to wipe his brow with his right arm, he realized he could not move it. Opening his eyes was a trial. It was quiet around him, though, peaceful and comforting. Memories of what had brought him in this situation appeared in his mind, jolting him to full awakening.

Somebody was babbling nearby: the baby. Then a deep voice, whispering. Familiar and reassuring.

“Sssssh. You're going to wake your parents.”

The words were enough for Aramis to muster the strength to open his painful eyes. It was darker in the forest. Trees were the perfect cover, leaves rustling in the wind, birds chirping. A perfect picture if they had not shed blood hours before. The fire was no more.

“He's grown quite fond of you,” Aramis mumbled, a grin spreading on his face. Porthos was sitting on the other side of the charred circle, back against a tree, a rather agitated child in his arms. He shrugged, standing up to walk toward his friend.

“Someone has to watch over him while you're passed out. Always the dramatic hero, aren't you?”

“Thanks, Porthos.”

“No problem.”

Now that his vision was steadying, Aramis adverted his eyes from his son who appeared unharmed and rather content to inspect his wound. As long as they had alcohol to clean it, it would most certainly heal without consequences. He had once ridden with a dislocated shoulder, a leg injury would not stop him from mounting a horse.

Shifting to better accommodate his leg, Anne pressed closer to his chest. Her breathing was even and undisturbed. Deep sleep, head pillowed on his right arm, both hands clutching it, keeping it trapped against her cheek. His hand on her stomach. Her legs bent against his right one. Even when falling asleep, she had been cautious not to apply any pressure on his injury.

He pressed his lips to the top of her head. They used to refrain from such gestures while Porthos was around, because it was unfair, and Aramis was aware his best friend still resented him, in spite of everything he did to assist them in their escape. After today, Aramis could not – would not- chide away from expressing his feelings in plain sight.

“She stabbed him. The Red Guard who attacked her,” Porthos said quietly, grabbing curious fingers trying to touch his beard. He sat down next to his best friend.

“She's fierce.”

“She's changed.”

“No, she hasn't,” Aramis refuted Porthos' statement. “ Don't you remember how she confronted Richelieu last year? It was always there. It was merely dormant. She's the bravest of us all.”

Porthos had to agree. After the shock, the attack, the fright that Aramis had fainted, she still managed to help him collect useful weapons in the open field. Despite the sickness it triggered, she had stood by while he took care of the Red Guards' bodies. It was no wonder she was so exhausted. Porthos was, too.

“How long was I out?”

“A couple of hours, I'd say. It's not night yet.”

“We'll leave when she wakes up.”

“You should rest more, Aramis. I'm not sure I did a very good job.”

“It'll do, Porthos. Almost better than what Athos would have done.” Porthos smirked.

“It'll be my pleasure to flaunt it in his face when we'll see him again.” His words were boisterous, meant to be joyful. A dark shadow in his eyes told the opposite. “I hope they're fine.”

“Athos and Milady? The deadliest pair in the kingdom. They'll be all right, as long as they don't kill each other first.”

A wince after Aramis had laughed. Porthos passed him some welcome water. His throat was dry, and it was refreshing.

“You mentioned you interrogated one. Did he tell you how he found us?” Porthos inquired. Aramis turned his head, pretending he was focused on Anne. Yes, he knew and no, he did not wish to tell his friend. Porthos would most likely blame himself.

“Aramis?”

“No, I didn't ask him.”

“You're lying.”

Porthos pushed his shoulder roughly. Anne mumbled in her sleep, disturbed by the reverberating shove.

“Easy. If you wake her up, Louis won't need his new favourite governess anymore.”

Porthos growled once more, dark eyes and clenched jaw. His friend was indeed lucky the woman was sleeping in his arms _and_ he was injured. He slapped the back of Aramis' head.

“You're only jealous.”

“Of what?”

“That he might like me more.”

Aramis rolled his eyes, one arm extended toward his friend who first ducked in preparation for a retaliation which never arrived. Instead, he simply reached for the baby's face, tiny wondering blue eyes gazing at him. A tiny mouth giggling as his father touched his cheek softly. Small redeeming gestures to ease the pain spreading in Aramis' body. He wished they could spare some more cognac.

“I tell you what: I think he might look a little like you. Especially the smile. God bless him if he breaks as many hearts as you did.”

“Let's hope you are correct.” Merely because this prospect supposed that they would live long enough to see the baby grow into a man. “Since when do you know so much about babies anyway?”

“I'm not deaf. I've been listening. Besides, it's not so hard. Athos was wrong.”

“Please make sure you flaunt _this_ in his face when we're reunited.” Aramis smirked, then coughed. The trembling increased the throbbing until Porthos passed him the water again. Using what once was a piece of Anne's dress, he went to wipe his best friend's forehead only to have him snatch the rag.

“ _I_ don't require a nurse, thank you very much.”

“Speaking of nurse, I think he's in need of.....” Porthos scrunched his face, motioning to the happy child clutching his uniform, marveling at the once shiny buttons.

“Of what? Cleaning?”

“Yes.”

“I'm afraid I'm in no position to assist in this matter,” he answered, pointing at his sleeping charge, then at his leg. The look on Porthos' face was priceless. Aramis all but burst out laughing, worries forgotten in the split second his friend understood what it meant.

“But you're the one who's been doing it from the beginning. He's not my son, he's yours! Deal with him.”

“Oh now, you're quick to hand him back, aren't you? Not quite ready for fatherhood, are you, Porthos?”

“ _Bastard_.” Aramis should have been offended by the insult. He only whistled his approval, overwhelmed that in spite of everything, Porthos was no longer considering the child as a member of the royal household. Aramis could not have asked for a better redemption. His friend would forgive him, if he had not already done so. It was not a conversation he wished to initiate yet.

“See? You may speak Spanish when you are inclined enough.” His friend still glared. “Help me up and I'll take care of my _son_.”

Aramis would never be tired of saying these words, of acknowledging the baby's parentage, of not having to worry about betraying the country furthermore. In spite of the stabbing pain, of the threat of other attacks, of not reaching Gascony alive, he would die content. Joyous and glad to have been able to spend so much privileged moments with the child.

Anne fussed in what he believed was an adorable manner as Porthos gathered her in his arms so the other might be free to stand up. Limping, ignoring the daggers in his heart, his leg, his stomach, Aramis went to take care of his son.

Such an innocent creature should never have to be subjected to violence or hardship. He did not deserve it. He did not deserve what had happened in the afternoon. He did not deserve what his parents made him go through. Basking in small squeals and smiles, Aramis took the time to savour each passing second. His wound stung when he stood up, hand on a nearby tree to find his balance, the child grasping the crucifix around his neck. It had become one of his toys.

_“I promise you, once we have reached our destination, nothing of the sort will ever befall you or your mother ever again. I promise.”_

One gentle kiss on the growing fair hair, an enthusiastic hand gripping a stray lock of dark hair. Aramis winced, but did not stop him. It was too precious. Louis had been as shaken as Anne during the attack and even though he did not display any trauma, Aramis would not prevent him from playing with whatever he desired.

Anne was still sleeping as he made his way back to the meadow they occupied. Porthos had drawn his cape on her, keeping her warm. Aramis did not know what he would do without his best friend to protect his family.

Aramis dragged himself to his previous seat, almost collapsing on the hard forest ground. The baby bounced in his arms, babbling endlessly.

“Food?” Porthos offered. Aramis was not hungry, but accepted it nevertheless. “You never answered my question.”

Aramis groaned in response to Porthos' stern look. He would not stop pestering him until he was given what he wanted.

“You cheated that Red Guard at cards back in Paris. He recognized the description made by the villagers.”

His friend stilled, jaw set, dark eyes and forehead creased. He should have known better. He could hardly pass unnoticed, especially in the countryside where people of his appearance were seldom seen. Aramis was quick to remedy to any foolish idea his best friend might entertain. He might be tired, he knew Porthos well enough to recognize the signs of him thinking over strategies.

“Whatever it is, don't. It's not your fault, and if it had not been that, other may have driven us out later. We've always been aware it might happen.”

“Still. If I had been one second too late, he....”

Aramis tightened his hold on his son, the dreadful thought crossing his mind as well.

“I thank God you weren't, Porthos. We're all safe and more or less well.”

“We cannot take more risks, Aramis. Not until you have recovered and even after.”

“We're halfway to Lupiac. I suppose we can avoid villages and farms altogether if we travel by night.”

“The weather is growing warm. Is it almost summer? I've no idea what day or month it is.”

“I'm as clueless. But yes, I agree, it may not be so harmful for him to sleep outside, especially if one of us holds him close to keep him from being cold.”

They soon relaxed into strategical talking, the conversation reminding them of countless ones at the Garrison, in Paris, with their brothers-in-arms. It was easier to look past feelings to choose the best course of actions to lead their small companion to Gascony.

It was completely dark in the forest when Anne eventually woke up. She was disorientated by the darkness and the quiet. Sitting up straight, her entire body ached. Hands on her eyes to rub the drowsiness from them. One tall figure standing tall at the edge of the meadow. Another one slumped against a tree. She could discern its chest slowly rising and falling. A steady rhythm mirrored by the bundle in its arms.

Full remembrance of the afternoon assaulted her and all of a sudden, she knew exactly where she was. Ignoring the dizziness, she stood up in a second, coming close to Aramis. She was relieved he was awake as he turned his face to smile weakly at her. The baby was asleep on his lap.

“I was worried,” she whispered. His face was hot under her fingers, his shirt clung to his chest, soaked with perspiration.

“You should not trouble yourself for me.” He let her smooth his matted hair, the gesture relaxing. His leg was numb from the alcohol they had applied to the wound moments earlier. Her lips were cool against his blazing cheek.

“I've always worried about you, Aramis. There's never been a day when I did not think about you....back then.”

“You honour me.”

“You deserve that, and so much more.” She kissed his lips gently, never letting go until Porthos, who had heard she was awake, returned to their side.

She had known they might be attacked and forced to defend themselves. It had not been discussed while they were making plans at the convent, yet they all knew it did not need to be said out loud. Actually witnessing it, playing a part in it, coming to understand that the King was indeed serious about chasing her, it had changed many things. She was not certain of how much, but her whole life was being reshaped.

“We'll ride as soon as you have fed him.”

“Is it wise?” she inquired, afraid for Aramis, afraid that his wound might worsen if he were to remain on a saddle for too long.

“Whether it is or not is of no importance. We've assumed it will be safer to travel by night so we have to make the best of a cloudless one such as tonight.”

Another weak smile to comfort her and give himself some courage while Porthos was busy putting their belongings in bags, and saddling the horses roaming close-by. The baby was not happy to be awoken, shrills piercing the silent countryside until warm milk flooded down his throat and he settled down. Aramis wished it would be as easy for him.

He willed himself not to groan when he mounted his horse. For her sake. She kept throwing uneasy glances every time he would hiss in pain. Short gasps of breath until they had ridden some miles and his leg was such an excruciating burden it became familiar. After some hours on the road, the throbbing was the only thing he could think about, assaulted by the cool air. Even though they were going south where the weather would presently be gorgeous, nights were always chilly.

Once the baby grew discontent and they had to stop, Aramis could not muster the strength to face the ordeal of actually dismounting and mounting again. It was easier to watch their surroundings from his saddle, although he did a poor job. Leaning forward, forehead pressed to the mane. He could not refuse the bottle of alcohol thrust in his face by Porthos. There was almost none left, but he would have taken anything to numb the ache.

“I'll find more next time we come close to a village,” Porthos promised, eager to settle his friend. It troubled him that he had to watch Aramis suffer while he could do so little to help. His voice even sounded foreign to Aramis, far away in the invisible shadows which had been erected around him. He did not wish to inquire how the other would acquire strong spirits, as long as he did.

 


	35. Chapter 35

 Chapter XXXV

 

For the next few days, Aramis could scarcely help Porthos. Every time they would find a shelter to hide during daytime, he mainly slept. It was the only means to ease and forget the pain. Usually they would nurse such wounds at the Garrison, in a warm bed with warm meals and plenty of rest. On the road, it would take longer to recover. Aramis resented himself for it.

Porthos was the one creeping into villages to buy what little food they could afford. Isolated farms should have been a better alternative, yet he was afraid his countenance would be suspicious. Three days after they were attacked, Anne had gathered her spirits once more, even though she could not allow herself to be as cheerful as she had been before. This feeling had been crushed by the Red Guards, and it worried her to entertain it again.

They had found an empty shack deep in a luxuriant forest, so concealed under ivy and bramble, they almost missed it. It was secluded, no door, a rather pitiful roof, but four walls. Enough. More than what they had the previous day. Less than what she would have expected. Her expectation kept on being lowered with each passing hour. It was unthinkable that merely a month before she was Queen of France.

Her son was well, though, his father was as well as someone who had suffered a wound in battle could be. There was not a minute when she did not worry about Aramis, even though she had soon learned not to voice it out loud too much. It upset him. Anne had seldom seen this side of his personality. She had witnessed his smiles, his jokes, his despair, his anger, his chivalry. Aramis being in pain was unsettling. How ever hard he tried to conceal what it did to him, she was growing so accustomed to him, she could notice it nonetheless.

It was pleasant, in spite of their predicament, to be able to care for him. To care for their son. She had been busier in the past weeks than in her entire existence before. The state of her hands should have outraged her, so filthy and sore, so foreign from the pristine skin she used to display at the Palace. No more ornate rings and jewelery. Only the pearl earrings safe in her bag. Her offer to sell them was declined by both her companions. Not solely because they noticed how difficult it had been for her to make the suggestion. It would draw suspicion if such expensive jewels appeared out of nowhere in the countryside.

She would have done anything to assist. Aramis was asleep very soon after they had settled in the rudimentary shack. Staying idle and being pensive were not activities she particularly enjoyed. She did rejoice in the sight of the man holding the child so close while they both slept. Louis was growing fast and it was a joy to constantly be with him. She liked to believe she was becoming a better mother every day. At least now she knew how to care for him properly.

Nursing was not so bad after all. Another aspect of her new life she did not mind anymore. Learning and practicing how to speak relaxed French with Porthos often made her smile. Often made _them_ smile. It was a strange feeling to not have to trouble herself with rigid protocol and manners, to not expect bows or deference. Aramis had no difficulty treating her as an equal. Porthos used to. Not for the past week. She was pleased by this change.

“Anne?” Porthos still frowned at the name. It sounded wrong, not proper. Not how he should address her. She may compromise on some things, she was fierce when it came to her title. “We've barely enough food for tonight. Would you mind if I tried my luck at the farm we saw on the road?”

He hated to leave her alone while Aramis was sleeping. On the other hand, waking him up did not cross his mind. It was obvious that riding with such an injury how ever well it was healing, was putting a strain on his best friend. At least there was no fever.

“May I come with you? I wish to help,” she added when he cast her a surprised glance, eyebrows raised, a slight move of the head toward Aramis. They were so far in the forest that only someone who knew they were here would come and spy on them. She reckoned it was rather safe.

“If I come, we'll be able to carry more items. He does not even have to learn about it, Porthos. Please. Besides, you mentioned you were afraid being by yourself might be viewed as suspicious. Being together may be less so.”

In the end, the soldier had to agree with her multiple arguments. She had always been determined, one would not say stubborn because a monarch never was, yet she often got what she wanted. It was a trait she would hopefully never forsake.

It was not noon yet, a gorgeous day in a region she knew nothing about. The forest was replaced by open and blooming fields. The sun on her face was always welcome. Her once dazzling complexion turning slightly brown in the sunshine. No canopy, no sunshade, no fan. No one to complain that it was too warm. It reassured Porthos to witness her smile despite the constant danger.

Away from Court, intrigues, repressed emotions, he could see what had drawn Aramis to her. She would never be unrefined, but she was simple in her own way. She deserved their mission to reach its completion.

He tensed when a cacophony of barking announced their presence.

“Let me do the talking.” She nodded her assent, glad to be shielded by his body. Dogs came to smell her dress. Although her smell often repelled her these days, the animals did not appear to mind it at all. It must have been familiar to the hounds because as soon as their owner had joined them in the large courtyard, they went back to their previous position on the doorstep.

“Oh, I thought it was them Red Guards again.”

Her breathing itched, her eyes drawn to Portho's slight gesture to grip the pistol strapped to his belt. The old woman stared at them, drying her hands on her dirty apron.

“Good day, ma'am.” He tipped his hat at her, smiling broadly to ease the tension inside and around him. “We're only passing through. We don't mean to bother you. If you had some food we could buy, it would be great.”

She was still looking so intently at them, Anne almost felt compelled to bow to show respect. Instead she stepped forward to stand next to Porthos, arms behind her back so the farmer's wife would not see how nervous she was.

“We've got money to pay you.”

“Oh yes, of course, my girl. It's just those soldiers all but ransacked the house the other day. But we'll find you something. Come with me.”

Porthos had displayed some coins to support Anne's statement, and it had been enough to convince the woman. He was troubled by her mention of the Red Guards and had to inquire.

“We halted in a village a day ride away where they had been visited by soldiers, too. Do you know what they wanted?”

“Well, it so happens the Queen has deserted the Palace. At least that's what they told me. They were vague, but I do love some gossip, you know?” She was busy putting together vegetables and eggs, probably enamoured by Porthos' good manners and charming smiles. “Anyway, they're looking for her, but as I've told them and as my Paul said, we wouldn't even recognize her if she were in the room. Who do they think we are? That we know her personally? I've never been to Paris myself. You?”

“Once or twice, yeah.”

“And have you seen the King or the Queen?”

“Never. Closeted in their padded corridors, aren't they?”

“Isn't that right, my boy. Here.” She put a large sack in his hands. Porthos winked at Anne when she had turned her back on them to retrieve some liquor they had asked for. Anne was impressed by his ability to lie blatantly, almost insulting her as she stood feet away from him. She could not be troubled to be hurt; it was for her own good. From the outside, her life must have been seen as such.

“Anyhow, I could not care less about their business. It's enough to struggle with our lives, don't you think? I hope they won't come back.”

“When were they here?”

“I couldn't recall exactly...Wait, yes! It was on Monday. Two days ago. I remember because I was milking Jeannine, that's our cow, and they barged in as if they were royalty themselves.”

“Soldiers,” Anne said sternly, shaking her head, earning an earnest nod of approval from the woman and a stifled bout of laughter from Porthos.

“Don't ever mention this to Aramis,” she urged once they had paid the woman and thanked her profusely for her kindness. They were walking back to their hiding spot with plenty of food and drink.

“What? That you joked about our trade?”

“That I came here with you altogether. They were close. Two days is a blink. We could have run into more Red Guards.”

“But we didn't, Anne. We're safe and we're going to feast.” A bright grin to reassure her, and reassure himself. She was right, as always. They had been lucky. Porthos could only hope that soon, the King's soldiers would have covered this part of the country and finding nothing, would return to Paris. Never to leave his Majesty's side again. If the chase was fruitless, the King may imagine his wife had left France entirely and stop wasting men and money on inspecting every nook and corner of the kingdom.

The baby was quietly playing with sticks and small rocks, safely sat between his father's extended legs, one strong yet still hand on his small belly so he would not move. There was something oddly comforting about Aramis' soft snores.

“You see, Porthos, you had no reason to be concerned.”

“Obviously.” He put their newly acquired supplies on the ground, envying his friend. Not the injury, but the opportunity to sleep and rest for hours. “I'll round the place to make sure we're safe and then I'll rest.”

Her arms were sore from carrying such a weight all the way from the farm. The heaviest burden she ever had to carry was her growing son and it was nothing compared to food and bottles. She cringed as Louis put an extremely dirty finger in his mouth, knelt and picked him up.

_“Now, my dear, if you are hungry, Maman has better sustenance for you.”_

She had taken after Aramis' fashion to talk to her child in Spanish. Another request denied at the Palace. She was free to do as she desired now, and it was a joy to share her native language with him. The baby squealed loudly. God bless him, he had no idea what was happening around him, or the danger he was in. He was better fed than the three of them.

He was quiet while she was nursing him, fingers clutching the fabric of her dirty dress. Another garment which had not lasted long on the road. It resembled more a rag than the clean and warm dress offered by the farmer's wife the week before. Anne would have sacrificed anything for a hot bath. Such commodities were not expected among commoners yet it was the only luxury she would have gladly retained.

Another high-pitched cry of discomfort as she shifted his weight to her other side. She smoothed the hair on his head before kissing it gently.

_“Sssshhhh. You don't want to wake Papa, do you? He's very tired and he must rest. He's very brave, you know. The bravest of them all.”_

_“Say that again.”_ A mumble which made her snap her head up in surprise. Fluttering eyelids as Aramis woke up slowly. One hand rubbing at his thigh.

_“You're the bravest man I've ever known.”_

_“Well, yes, that. But no. What did you call me?”_ His head turned toward her, the hint of a smile on his lips. She reached for his hand, stopping him from messing with his wound. Fingers twined.

_“Papa? Is it not who you are?”_

Aramis struggled to sit up straight, throat dry from sleep. Her words may have accounted for some of his current emotions. This injury was making him weaker both physically and emotionally. She had always been his weakness.

_“Yes, but I didn't think that you would....”_

_“That I would what, Aramis? Sometimes, I have difficulties comprehending what is happening to me, to us. I_ have _chosen this life, though, and I want it to be as real as possible. If we are to spend the rest of our lives together, shouldn't we act as a family?”_

_“The rest of our lives. I like that. I love you, Ana.”_

A soft smile on her face as he brought her fingers to his lips, kissing them. Her cooling hand refreshing his cheek. A better medicine than anything he could have asked for. Her words and her touch. He would be fine in the end.

“I'm famished,” he confessed, eyes strained on the baby who was greedily eating. Anne blushed suddenly, realizing it was the first time she had nursed her son with one of the men nearby. She made a poor attempt at covering her chest. She did not have to say anything, her flushed face was enough for Aramis to understand.

Holding himself up on the wall, he staggered toward the heap of victuals Porthos must have managed to gather. His leg was less painful when he tried to put his foot down. He could not apply much weight to it, yet it was more than the previous day. His friend had done a great job taking the bullet out and stitching him up.

“I've found something!” Porthos exclaimed, barging in the small shack. “Oooops, my apologies.” He swiftly turned his back on Anne who, if she could have blushed more, would certainly have done so.

“Is it bad?”

“Not at all. You'll be delighted! I mean, not you Aramis, but Anne. I've found something you may like.”

He sounded and looked so boisterous, unlike the attitude he used to display lately. After the attack, his only concern was to maintain his best friend alive and to stay hidden so that they may not encounter more enemies. This happy display was a welcome change.

Aramis limped by Porthos' side, his arm around his shoulder, arguing that they should not leave the food behind, but rebuked once the other had assured him nobody would come and steal it. Anne followed behind, ashamed but curious. He would not tell them what it was.

She recognized the sound before she saw the lake. Water crashing on rocks, steady yet powerful rhythm. A waterfall.

“It's wonderful, Porthos!” she thanked him. Aramis rolled his eyes, relieved to lean against a tree. The view was splendid and his friend acted as if he was the one who had created the lake, not merely discover its existence. Anne may not have said anything, he often caught her trying to clean her hands, or running her fingers through the tangled braid that was her hair. Their son could have used a wash, as well.

“Will you be all right without me?” he asked Aramis.

“You're welcome to stay.”

“She'll never get into it if I do.” They both knew it was true. Her reaction earlier had been proof enough. She may grow to think of him as a friend, even the closest of friends did not have to share everything.

“Thanks, Porthos.”

“Don't thank me. I'll finally be able to sleep without you snoring next to me.”

Aramis almost lost his balance in his attempt to slap the other's arm. Porthos' deep laughter followed him long after he had disappeared in the woods.

Willing his eyes to stay open and ignore the throbbing pain, he focused on Anne, kneeling close to the lake, small waves lapping against her bare feet and the bottom of her dress. Fingers dipping in the water and splashing Louis' face playfully. Squeals and wondering babbles, tiny fingers springing forward to feel the wet surface.

Water up to her knees when she advanced in the lake, not a shiver in her body despite the coolness. Too much joy overruling everything else. A shriek as more water was poured on the baby's face. Agitation once she had set her mind to scrub his cheeks. A fight his son would never win even if he battled in her arms fiercely.

Reassuring Spanish breaking the peaceful atmosphere. Such a genuine smile on her face when she turned around to look at him, beckoning him closer.

If Aramis had done the proper thing at the convent, if he had disagreed to the general agreement to flee, if he had stood up for what was honourable and dutiful, he would never have had this. They would not be the three of them together, on this lake bank. For the first time, he was not ashamed of his decision. Their decision.

Because if he was, he would not have them. He would not have his family.  


	36. Chapter 36

 Chapter XXXVI

 

Life in Paris, being a soldier, making friends, becoming a Musketeer, fighting to protect others, swearing an oath of allegiance to the King of France, falling in love, risking his life every day, all of these new developments had made d'Artagnan forget what his life had been for the major part of his existence. Growing up in Gascony, working on a farm, only practicing sword-fighting when they were not too tired from working in the fields. He would have gladly forsaken these mundane tasks forever.

Life used to be more exciting in Paris. Dangerous, yet rewarding. The thrill, the anticipation, the battle, the clash of rapiers. Striding in ornate corridors, a proud pauldron on his shoulder, brothers-in-arms, laughter, games of cards. Captain Tréville shouting at him because he was late, because they had disobeyed, because they were hopeless and would never learn how to behave like proper Musketeers.

Porthos winking even though he tried to act sorry. Aramis putting on a feathered hat, ladies giggling as he paid his respect. Athos brooding, mumbling, providing more advice d'Artagnan had ever received in his life. Three older brothers, the siblings he wished he could have had growing up. The mischief they might have done and the subsequent scolding they would certainly have received.

Life in Lupiac had not been dull when he was a child. He had enjoyed it: the open fields, the animals, the trees he had climbed. It would have been better with others to enjoy it. They would have turned the estate upside down, his father probably angrier than he used to be at d'Artagnan alone. Nursing their injuries together after his father was done with them would have been a better alternative than having to do it by himself.

Although their servants would have said young d'Artagnan alone was enough to brighten up the farm, dogs always on his heels, it was eerily quiet these days. It had shocked him when he had eventually arrived with Constance and Tréville. He had been aware it was attacked the previous year, yet the damage was far greater than what he would have imagined. The picture he had in his mind, the one he hanged on to, it resembled nothing to what it was nowadays.

It was a deserted place, weeds everywhere in the open courtyard, broken down doors, the roof almost non-existent. No one seemed to have set foot in the place for months. It broke his heart a little, even though they were all relieved to have reached their destination without too many pitfalls. It was a miracle in itself. Tréville had said it constantly on their way southward.

D'Artagnan often wondered if it would be safe to attempt to rebuild the farm. His father might have appreciated it. It was a part of his life, his personal history, a place full of memories he was not keen on relinquishing. Would the King send Red Guards here, knowing it was the place one of the disloyal Musketeers had grown up in? Or would he believe it was too obvious of a hiding spot? Would his Majesty take such a risk? Did he even care? D'Artagnan remembered a time, when he had been given his commission, when Louis XIII used to be so proud of his Musketeers. Everything had changed with Rochefort. The young soldier liked to think that he was glad to be rid of them.

The journey had been long, especially for Constance. They had taken a less direct path than Porthos and Aramis, eager to cover their tracks and lose whoever might chase them. As long as the others had not joined them, they would not attempt to desert the farm. They slept inside, on the cold floor, barely daring to light a fire with the exception of cooking. Tréville was growing restless. Of the three of them, he was the least satisfied with the arrangement.

The farm had been their refuge for a little more than a week now. They never wandered into nearby villages, the men hunting and fishing for food. If they stayed longer, they might try to cultivate some crops or vegetables. Constance often mentioned she may enjoy it. At least it was as sunny and warm as d'Artagnan had promised. She enjoyed it there. Her head would snap, eyes worried every time a small noise would startle her. Always terrified that some new catastrophe may befall them. D'Artagnan's warm arms holding her closer at night if she woke up from a nightmare.

One week without any news from Porthos or Aramis, even though they had taken a shorter path. They did not dare speak about the subject, unwilling to share their doubts and fears out loud. Seven nights when d'Artagnan would walk to the end of the road leading to the farm, waiting at the edge of the forest where they had agreed to meet once they would be reunited.

Seven evenings when the young man, alone with his thoughts and only his weapons to clean to keep him busy, would wonder if his explanations had been precise enough. He may have been too hasty in his directions; Aramis may have been too shaken to listen properly. What if _they_ had encountered problems? They were travelling with a baby after all. Many things may take a turn for the worse. Seven dark nights when he would join his two companions with a concerned look on his face, unaccompanied by their friends. Constance hoped the Queen and the Dauphin were fine. It was somewhat impossible to stop using these titles whenever her thoughts turned to them, which was often.

D'Artagnan had prepared for another fruitless watch. Rustling close by made him almost fire his pistol at Porthos once the man had stepped out of the forest where they had been waiting for the youngest.

“God dammit, Porthos!” he blasphemed, fastening his weapon to his belt, relieved to the core. Porthos looked tired, yet there was such a foolish grin on his face. Satisfaction at having scared the other. They hugged, laughing. “You should not sneak on people. It may end badly.”

“You should have heard me coming long before you did. You're not a very effective guard.” d'Artagnan rolled his eyes.

“Where are Aramis and the Queen?”

“They've stayed behind until it was safe. We were not certain you would be here.”

“We've been here for a week already. What held you up?”

“I think we have many things to talk about, my friend. Wait.”

Porthos whistled loudly, the signal they had agreed on if it was harmless for his companions to leave the cover of the forest. They had arrived earlier in the afternoon, and waiting while their friends might be in the vicinity had been a torture. The baby had been in quite a discomfort for the last couple of days and they all were at a loss as to how comfort him. Hopefully, staying in the same place and not travelling every day would put him at ease quickly.

Always on edge, never trusting the quiet or peace of their surroundings, always expecting enemies to pounce on them had tired Aramis more than his injury. One arm holding the reins of his horse, the animal being a great help to walk, it was a tremendous relief to see d'Artagnan's familiar face.

Clutching her son tightly to her chest, grateful that he was sleeping for the time being, Anne shared the same feeling. The last fortnight had put a strain on her, ever since they had been attacked by the Red Guards. She was exhausted, yearning for a warm bed and long hours she would not have to spend on horseback. Worrying for Aramis, worrying for Louis, praying each day that they would live to see another night, these were ordeals she wished would cease rapidly.

“I'm so thankful to see you, d'Artagnan.” She did not complain as the soldier bowed respectfully. She had somewhat forgotten people were expected to do it.

“So am I, your Majesty.” She could not rebuke him. She had no will to do it. It was reassuring to come face to face with a friend, someone who knew her, someone who would protect her and not try to betray her. A person with whom she did not have to pretend to be somebody else.

Aramis breathed loudly next to her, reminding her that his injury was still deeply troubling him, and that it was not good for him to be on his feet for too long. He may well say whatever he pleased, or complain under his breath, she was determined to care for him. Porthos often found it hilarious to watch his best friend being pestered by the former Queen, so resolute and with such fierce eyes Aramis had learnt not to contradict her.

“What happened to you?” d'Artagnan exclaimed when he realized his brother-in-arms was wounded.

“Red Guards.”

“All dead, don't worry,” Porthos added after he had noticed the look of disbelief the other's cast at them.

“I'll be fine, d'Artagnan. Porthos, here, has been a better surgeon than what you might actually believe.”

Porthos glared, but helped him up on his horse nevertheless. He was not about to make him walk all the way to the farm. Aramis sometimes argued he could walk on his own, yet never for long. He would have plenty of time to rest and recover completely soon.

Constance was attempting to clean the inside of the farm which had been overrun by dust and creeping weeds. It was her main task lately, one hard enough to focus her mind on other matters than her missing friends. Tréville was always keeping watch outside, never trusting their position to be safe. It was silent around them, so she heard the unmistakable sound of horses long before they had reached the courtyard.

The three of them appeared to be rather tired, despite their smiles. It shocked her to notice how the Queen had changed. Travelling the length of the country was not a clean affair, but even her dress was in rags. She looked thin, thinner than she had been when they had left the convent. Not a surprise, still a disturbance. A genuine smile on her face as she spotted Constance hurrying towards them. Happiness at finding out the other woman was safe and well. One fierce embrace defying all the rules of decorum.

“I'm so glad to see you,” Constance declared after she had let go. “I was afraid you may have suffered some difficulties on the road.”

“We have. I've had excellent protectors by my side.”

“You were amazing yourself, Anne.” She smiled at Porthos, her name coming out more easily lately. He was not even aware of it. Hearing Aramis call her 'Ana' was becoming such a normal feature of their small company that it had started to transpire on him.

Tréville was delighted as well to be reunited with the woman and his soldiers. Although he still resented Aramis, he was perturbed to witness Porthos helping him down from his mount. The story was explained once more on the way inside the building. Constance shuddered at the mention of the Red Guards, then again when she was told they had been slaughtered, that one had dared threaten the Queen and her child.

Anne was pleased by the offer to light a fire in the large room where d'Artagnan had established their quarters. It was rudimentary, no less than what she had been used to these past days. Nothing that should bother her. Although sleep was upon her, she felt much content to finally have reached their destination. There was a quick conversation occurring around her, news being shared, hardship, trivial information, chuckles, scoffs.

Her eyes were focused on her son,the tiredness and perilous adventure was affecting the poor soul more than all of them. He had not been the cheerful and exploring baby he used to be at the beginning. She should have predicted it would not last. Warming her back, sitting on the bare ground, Aramis' cape clasped around her shoulders -or was it Porthos'?-, she was soothing Louis' back. She hoped he would not wake up for hours.

Constance had offered some most-welcome food, Tréville had given her some wine. She heard someone inquiring about what their next action should be. Someone dismissed the thought at once. It would wait until morning. She was indebted to whoever it was. The only problem she wished to settle tonight was to know if Aramis would be able to sleep comfortably. His painful curses from the previous day rang in her ears. Rolling over on his injured leg in his slumber had been quite a horrendous way to be jostled to awakening.

“I'll do it myself. _I_ am not a baby,” he hissed. Porthos had come with the intention to inspect and clean the wound. Aramis snatched the bottle from his hand, drank some of its content then took care of his thigh. Porthos grumbled, slumping to the floor.

“You could have fooled me,” he muttered. D'Artagnan laughed out loud, basking in the joy of having been reunited with two of his brothers-in-arms. If only Athos could be with them, it would have been perfect. As perfect as being traitors may be.

“I should have left the bullet inside. It might have spared us your whining.”

“I don't whine,” Aramis scoffed, stifling one as the alcohol burnt his flesh.

“This horse is a hindrance. My stirrups are too tight. You should not have stitched it so tight. I may walk by myself. I...”

“Shut your mouth, Porthos.”

“Aramis.” The soft yet stern rebuke astonished Constance. The way Aramis reacted to the Queen's reproach astonished her further. His eyes relaxed in an instant, adverting from Porthos who had been mocking him to her. There had been more cutting remarks lately, the two friends obviously suffering from the aftermath of the fight with the Red Guards and the weariness of the escape. The first time she had stood up and asked them to put a stop to it, they had stared at her in disbelief, only to rejoice in realizing she was growing so confident in their presence.

His injury aggravated Aramis and even if he tried to control his temper, he did not always succeed. Porthos and Aramis were now used to being interrupted in their arguments. The others were not, the three of them gaping at the former Queen and the soldier who mumbled an apology. Porthos was smirking, winking as d'Artagnan raised a curious eyebrow at the entire situation.

Aramis had spent so much time sleeping at the end of their journey. Anne had been more inclined to talk with Porthos, wishing to become better acquainted with the man risking his life for her sake. There had been long hours of talking, discussions about his past, appalled comments at outrageous catastrophes, comforting words, many stories about the Musketeers, some tales Aramis may not be proud of but that she deemed quite entertaining.

There was so much she was not ashamed of anymore. Small changes: not sitting with her back straight, sleeping on the ground, eating with her fingers, walking barefoot whenever she wished to, cleaning her hands on her own garment, providing comforting touches -a hand on an arm, a shoulder- when they were needed, speaking to soldiers without protocol. Greater changes: sleeping close to a man she loved, one hand in his so he may not rub at his wound, displaying signs of love -kisses, hand on a cheek, hand on his hair- with an audience, speaking Spanish, caring completely and totally for her son.

“How do you like Gascony, Captain?” Aramis asked to change the subject. He may have apologized, he was not sorry for having snapped at his best friend. Porthos deserved it. Tréville glanced at him.

“I would like any place which had to become our refuge the same, I suppose. It's quiet, to put it mildly. And we haven't been visited by Red Guards yet.”

“Which is a comfort.” d'Artagnan nodded to concur, one arm around Constance's shoulders. They were sitting down by the fire, eyes moving to the window from time to time. Old habits.

“Let's hope it will remain unchanged. I have no desire to fight anytime soon.”

“Neither do we.”

Aramis drank some more after he had finished focusing on his wound. He glanced at his former Captain as he offered him the remainder of the bottle. It was accepted curtly. They would have to talk, privately, to settle matters. Constance and d'Artagnan did not appear to resent him for his past actions with Anne. Tréville had a different opinion. Starting a new life was not a happy prospect for him.

Aramis was relieved beyond belief to have reached d'Artagnan's estate without more damage. He would have to thank God profusely as soon as he would have recovered enough. He longed to lie down, although it was nice to be reunited with the others. Days, weeks on the road with Anne had shed the last remains of shyness or hesitation they might have toward one another. Ever since their afternoon near the lake, every single gesture they shared was effortless, unashamed, easy as breathing.

He sat down quietly by her side. Anne rested her head on his shoulder. Out of instinct, she grabbed his hand, because she was almost asleep and she had no intention to let him mess with Porthos' needlework. There was a smile on his lips as he kissed the top of her head. How may he confess that he liked her more in a simple way, with dirty hair and dirty cheeks, than when she was engulfed in heavy gowns and intricate hairstyles?

The baby fussed in her arms, but did not wake up. Carefully, she handed him to Aramis so he may lay him comfortably on the floor. He was wrapped in a blue cape, and there was a heavy blanket spread on the cold stones. In front of the fireplace, he would be perfectly well. Aramis kissed his tiny brow softly. There was no fever, a fact he was overjoyed by.

“He's been rather discontent lately. He'll certainly wake us up before dawn. My apologies,” he said to the others. Constance was pained at the news, d'Artagnan and Tréville frowned.

“You grow quite used to it,” Porthos promised. “Like father, like son, you know?”

He reeled back to avoid the piece of bread Aramis threw in his direction, catching it and eating it smugly. The other glared.

_“Bastard.”_

_“Idiot.”_

So it had come to that, Tréville thought. Porthos was no longer furious at Aramis for his intimacy with the Queen or for having fathered the Dauphin. He was aware it had not been his title for weeks. However, it was difficult to forsake so much, to accept such dramatic changes. Riding with the woman surely had helped Porthos come to terms with the predicament and the mutual decision to run away. The Queen was no more for him. When he addressed her, she was a friend, a companion. Only a faint hint of social hierarchy unwilling to be abandoned.

Porthos protected her, protected his best friend, protected their son. It was a blade to Tréville's heart to have such treacherous thoughts. However, now that he witnessed such natural interactions between Aramis and the woman he had vowed to defend with his life, a kiss on her cheek, Spanish whispers, it looked so pure and complete that it was almost blasphemous to blame them.

Constance's own romantic life was complicated yet growing more evident now that they were hundreds of miles from Paris. The whole turmoil was upsetting, but at least she had d'Artagnan. It comforted her to witness how relaxed the Queen was with Aramis, how happier she seemed to be, amid exhaustion and pain. She had never resented the monarch for her actions, except for her lack of precaution when it came to displaying her infatuation at a few occasions.

Watching her drift to sleep in the soldier's arms, Constance smiled, clutching d'Artagnan's hand. Some good may come out of the most desperate tragedies.

 


	37. Chapter 37

 Chapter XXXVII

 

Waking up in the middle of the night then falling asleep for a couple of hours before dawn broke had left Aramis in an uncomfortable position by the dying fire. His neck was sore when he eventually woke up totally, sunshine on his face. He was sitting, his back against a cold stone wall, Anne curled up on his side, her hand on his thigh. She was clever and he admired her dedication.

His injury was still painful albeit not as much as during the first days. There was beginning to be an itch in addition to a slight throb. Aramis sometimes rubbed at it absent-mindedly, blaming himself every time it would draw blood or trigger a burning pain. It was doing so now, but if he gave in to the urge, it would disturb her. When he would have completely recovered, he would thank her endlessly for her care.

The baby whimpered in his arms, the source of his awakening. After a few seconds, he remembered where he was: safe with the friends they had met the previous night. Scanning the large room, Aramis saw none of them. Louis was upset, though, as he often was these days. It sickened him to watch him be in pain and not be able to tend to him. He had no idea what the problem was. Long days of rest near warm flames or in the sun, no more horse-ridding, it may hopefully settle the child.

A small hand was clutching his shirt, quiet sobs but no tears which lessened once Aramis started to hum softly, fingers grazing the baby's head and cheeks. Constance had been drawn inside by the cries, always willing to assist in caring for the child she loved very much. It warmed her heart to realize her assistance was not required: Aramis was more than capable of tending to his son.

She smiled at the thought which had occurred more easily than what she would have believed. The soldier smiled back at her from across the room.

“Shall I bring you anything?”

“I don't think so, Constance, thank you. Although....I suppose we should rekindle the fire. He's been out in the wild for too long. _Yes, you have. But do not worry, everybody will take great care of you.”_ The boy was fussing, lips moving to utter short moans. Hearing his parents' voices or even Porthos' sometimes calmed him down.

 _“What's the matter,eh? You're safe here. Look.”_ Aramis moved the crucifix in front of Louis' eyes, finally setting his attention on one object, distracting him.

“He may be hungry. He hardly ate anything the last time he was awake,” Constance offered. Aramis agreed. The baby used to eat a lot more before. Anne looked so peaceful in her sleep that it was a torture to wake her up. She looked disoriented as she rose, one hand on her face to shield her eyes from the blinding sun.

“Ana? Louis is upset again.” It upset her as well. Sitting up straight, she held him close in her arms while Aramis braced himself against the wall to stand up and give her some privacy. His lips had left a warm trace on her temple, even though all her focus was on her son.

“Where are the others?” Aramis asked Constance while they were walking outside. His leg was numb from his sitting position, each step a wobble.

“Porthos and d'Artagnan have gone into the village to buy some more food. You had more money left than us. It will be a nice change from our usual meals. The Captain is outside, as always.”

“He still resents me, am I correct?” Her constrained smile was enough of an answer.

“Go talk to him.”

“It's my intention. What about you? What do you do around here?”

“Well, I was looking forward to taking care of the Dauphin.... I mean, Louis, but it seems that you both have that under control so I will go back to cleaning, I suppose.” It was refreshing to talk to her, funny to watch her frown at the prospective activity.

“Or you could rest, Constance. Even if you've been here for a week, your life has changed as much as anybody else's.”

“Rest? I will be bored to no end if I do so! No, perhaps I'll go to...her in a little while.”

“She would like that. She's missed you.” They both looked behind their shoulder towards the room they had just left and its occupants. Constance used to think she had grown quite close to the Queen at the Palace. She had been chosen to be her confidant after all. They used to be closer than any other lady-in-waiting had ever been. There was this delightful hope in her heart that they might grow to be actual friends in the future.

“If only we could all remain here together,” she wished out loud. Aramis put his hand on her arm, a comforting touch and a support as he limped.

“You can rest assured that we will not go anywhere until I am healed. Besides, they need to recover their strength.”

“Absolutely. Go find the Captain and I will bring you some food.”

“Constance, you are a mother to us all,” he professed, one hand on his heart.

“Then why are you such ill-behaved children?” she called out as she retreated into another room, her laughter following him as he stepped outside.

Tréville was on the far side of the courtyard, near the dirt path leading to the farm. He was standing tall and focused, eyes strained on the open fields, his head moving to roam his surroundings. Actions Aramis was more than familiar with, even though it had been days since he had kept watch himself. Another thing he would have to thank Porthos for.

Aramis was sweating when he reached the older man. One small normal step, his left leg holding his weight for a couple of seconds before he had to hop and limp to avoid collapsing. His heavy breathing and awkward walk had announced his arrival.

“Aramis.” A curt nod and a side glance to assess the damage the soldier was in. He would recover.

“Captain.”

“I was released from this position months ago.”

“I know but....calling you otherwise is just....wrong.”

“No more than not calling the Queen 'your Majesty' anymore.”

Aramis flinched, not from pain this time. The words were cold, so was Tréville's stare. A slow torture to which the soldier had no answer.

“I apologize, Cap....I apologize. It's my fault if you had to leave Paris.”

“Damn right, it is! The King might have lost all faith in us since Rochefort stepped in, we could have corrected matters if you had not been so foolish in the first place.”

“Rochefort's dead.”

“I'm aware. The whole kingdom knows about it. It's a wonder we are all still alive. It could have cost you more than this bullet. From what Porthos said, _they_ could be dead!”

“Yet, they're not.”

“They should not have been on the road anyway. Had I realized your attraction to women may lead to such a catastrophe, I would have strapped you to your bed a long time ago! Well, I would have asked Porthos and Athos to do it. Lock the door and toss the key. Dammit!”

Aramis had rarely heard his superior curse so much. He had seen him angrier than he was today, when they would be too reckless on missions or start tavern brawls the night before parades and regal events. It had always been related to their duty as Musketeers, as loyal soldiers. This precise matter was personal, only directed at Aramis. There was nothing more he might say to right his wrongs.

“You do realize all the others are still in Paris, don't you? You brought this on all of them. What you do with your own life concerns only you, Aramis. Did you think about your brothers-in-arms? What of them?”

“I did. Athos and I kept the problem quiet for this very reason, among others.”

“Did you? I would call it a failure then.”

“If Rochefort had not suspected something was amiss and attack Anne, we would....”

“Rochefort or someone else. Anybody could have discovered the truth and condemned you. And the Queen. And the child. Aramis.....”

“She's very dear to me, Captain. They both are.”

“And you to her, yes. Any simpleton may see it. Love and such emotions seldom lead to happy resolutions when you belong to royalty.”

“Which she does not.”

“And for how long? For how long do you suppose you can pretend?”

“What? To love her?” Tréville's rolled his eyes at the answer.

“To pass for commoners?”

“It's worked so far. We have spent a couple of nights in farms. Porthos has been teaching her to speak less formal French. She is not reluctant to take part in the basest tasks of life. She's even managed to cook some meals without burning most of it.”

Aramis bore Tréville's gauging stare, letting his explanation sink in. He meant every word he had said. He was sorry, but he loved Anne and their son, and he was _not_ sorry to have run away to protect their lives. Neither was Tréville. After all, their mission had always been to defend the monarch. However, he would have never believed it would one day mean they had to whisk her away from the King in order to do so.

He could plainly see that the other was sincere. It had been obvious the previous night. They had moved around each other effortlessly.

“The Queen of France, Aramis....”

“I know.”

“Renounced by the King and an outlaw.”

“Because of me.”

“Not solely. Rochefort had a part in it, Marguerite had a part in it. In the end, I reckon all of us had a part in it. I'm warning you,” he said suddenly, a finger pointed at Aramis. He resembled a terrifying father. “She _must_ stay alive. When I come back, and some catastrophe has befallen, I promise you I will be ruthless.”

“Why? Where are you going?” Aramis barely acknowledged the threat. Tréville took off his hat, using it to fan his face. It was almost midday and the weather was so warm. There was no shade in the courtyard.

“ I may no longer be their Captain, I ought to go back and find out what happened to the others.”

“You cannot be serious!” Aramis exclaimed, bewildered. “This is madness! With Rochefort gone, I imagine the King will not keep them locked up at the Garrison forever. He cannot do anything to them. They're all innocent. He may question them, they were unaware of my liaison with Anne. They will be released.”

“We need to be certain. I could never forgive myself.”

“Do you think I could? Do you realize we would be in jeopardy anywhere in the country? But in Paris? It's suicide, Captain. Why would you have ridden all the way here if only to travel back?”

“Constance had to be led away from danger. It was my duty to make sure she arrived here safely.”

“d'Artagnan would have been perfectly capable of protecting her by himself. Besides, Constance is a valiant woman. Captain, please, forsake the idea.”

Tréville glanced at the hand Aramis had put on his arm. There was genuine concern on the soldier's face, deeply troubled by the news his superior had announced.

“Information travels fast. If something extraordinary such as an entire regiment of Musketeers being sentenced to prison or death were to happen, we would know soon enough.”

“And yet, we would not be able to do anything about it. Not so far.”

“Because you imagine that if you travel alone to Paris, _you_ will have the ability to counteract a royal edit? While you're yourself a traitor to the Crown? I cannot envision you defeating the whole of the Red Guards. Surely, you must understand it.”

Tréville sighed, annoyed that Aramis was making perfect sense, as was often the case. The older man had considered this idea ever since they had left the convent. It had been a shame to turn his back on all the others soldiers, all the other men who trusted him and put their faith in his command. None of the Musketeers with him wanted to ride back to the capital city, though. Going by himself would indeed sound like riding to meet his demise. Aramis was correct. It broke his heart, but he could only hope the King would be magnanimous and let the former Musketeers go.

“I hate myself for bringing such hardship on them, believe me,” Aramis added, trying with all his might to convince the other to stay with them. “I can assure you I will spend the rest of life atoning for it.”

“And you ought to pray that no ill news reach us because I may not be so lenient with you if it should happen.”

The mutter reassured Aramis because it meant that the decision to leave the farm was somewhat forgotten, at least for a while. He did not know if Tréville would stay or go his separate way, and it did not matter to him, as long as the destination was not Paris. There was not a day when his mind did not drift back to all his brothers-in-arms, people he had cared for and fought alongside with; one big extended family.

The King may be furious at him for having slept with the Queen, furious at Tréville, and the three other Musketeers because they were closer than the others and had to have had knowledge of this treason. This rage was justified. Closing the Garrison was the worst he hoped would happen. He would never forgive himself if the decision to execute former Musketers was taken.

Days on the road with only Constance and Tréville, sleeping outside whenever it was possible, avoiding villages and cities, staying closeted on his family's estate, it had been d'Artagnan routine for the past weeks. Joining the crowd gathered for the small market in a nearby village was a dreaded yet enjoyable prospect. His face was known in the vicinity of the farm, even though he had been gone for a couple of years. So he kept his hood up the entire time Porthos and him were purchasing goods, in spite of the sun already high in the sky and burning him from above the cover of his cape.

Porthos was on edge as well, but it was no different than the previous weeks. People sometimes glared at him as if he were a rogue, weapons strapped to his belt, dark eyes letting strangers know they should not look for trouble with him. They had coins to pay so in the end, his countenance was disregarded most of the time.

“Let's have a drink before we go back,” he decided, pointing an elbow at the only tavern around the square. D'Artagnan frowned, eager to accept yet reluctant to do so.

“I'm not sure Constance would approve.”

“And since when do you need her approval? Come on.”

d'Artagnan hurried after his friend striding toward the establishment. The place was not quiet on such a busy day so nobody paid them any attention when they sat at a small table in a dark corner. The beer was cool, definitely refreshing.

“So how was it?” he eventually asked after a few sips, his voice barely a whisper. “To travel with the Queen?”

“First advice: don't refer to her as such. She can be quite ferocious about it.”

“How do you do it, though? I mean, I've heard you call her by her name but it sounds just....wrong.”

“It was. It still is sometimes, but you become used to it. Especially when she doesn't act like a Queen. You'll see. It grows on you. I've seen her do things I would never have imagined her capable of.”

“The way she rebuked Aramis last night? Priceless.” d'Artagnan grinned brightly, a gesture mirrored by the other soldier until they were laughing and downing their tankards.

Porthos counted his money, deeming it sufficient to buy two more drinks. It was agreeable to have another company than Aramis' brooding one. Even though it was becoming easier to accept Anne's company and chat with her, he always refrained from behaving normally with her. With d'Artagnan, it was effortless.

The young man was chuckling with each story his friend was telling him, Aramis being so dedicated and enamoured by the woman he often had not realized how his attitude was changing. Porthos had, sometimes feeling like an intruder on private moments. Aramis who used to be the one choosing his women and discarding them when he had grown weary of them. It was different with Anne, so unlike his usual character. Oddly easier and more natural.

“Don't tease him about it yet, though. He will throw a fit. He's in a rather despicable mood.”

“Well, I would, too, if I had to ride a horse for days with such a wound.”

“It's been two weeks. As long as we stop him from moving too much, it will soon pass.”

“And how do you suggest we do such a thing? You know Aramis.”

“He'll keep an eye on the baby. They've been a great napping pair lately. It should be enough to convince him.”

“I'm surprised he is in quite good health after a journey like ours,” d'Artagnan admitted. The ride had put a strain on all of them, and they were adults. For a baby as young as the Dauphin, it was a miracle he had survived, although he would never voice this thought out loud.

“I suppose he has taken after his parents' endurance and stubbornness.”

“His parents, eh?” Porthos shrugged. The thought came easily to him these days. He had heard Anne call Aramis “Papa” several times, albeit always in Spanish. It was the same in French, though; that much he understood. They behaved like a family, drawn together by hardship. Whether it would survive now that they were settling in one place, he had no doubt about it.

“There's no point in denying the truth.”

“So you're not angry anymore?”

“It saddens me that we had to desert and abandon all the others. I wish Aramis had had more common sense, but what's done is done, wouldn't you agree? Resenting him forever will bring no good.”

“I reckon you're right. I hope the others are fine.”

“They are, d'Artagnan. Life in Paris must be a little hectic, I would say. No Queen, no heir, Rochefort dead? The King must be in an immense turmoil. But killing an entire regiment? The people would never accept it. Too many men at once. The royal counsel would persuade him otherwise.”

He said it more to convince himself that it was true. It had to be true. D'Artagnan nodded, still bemused.

“Another one?” he asked, annoyed that his beer had gone faster than he would have liked.

“I thought Constance would not approve.” Porthos raised an eyebrow, a silly smirk on his lips. D'Artagnan sat back on his chair, shaking his head.

“As long as she doesn't know. Besides, I think this girl would like it very much if you went to talk to her again.” He cocked his head to the bar. The young woman serving drinks there was casting glances in their direction in a fashion she believed discreet. It was not. Porthos resembled none of the other patrons, and he was used to having this effect these days.

“So now that we're not Musketeers anymore you've changed trades and decided to become a matchmaker?” The place was dark and badly lit, in spite of the many windows, most of them too covered in dust and dirt to let the sun brighten the large room. Porthos squinted to try to assess the girl's features. 

“Apart from you, I fail to see who else I could match. Tréville would kill me,” he added as Porthos raised an eyebrow, laughing. “You ought to find a woman by yourself.”

“And why should I need one?” His beer was no more either. There were few coins left. Perhaps he could charm his way into having more at a cheaper price.

“The countryside is lonely without a woman, I should know.”

“Oh yeah? Any interesting information I might blackmail you with?”

“Over my dead body! I'll need more than two beers to share those with you!”

“By all means, then. Let me buy you another one to open that pretty mouth of yours.”

d'Artagnan slapped his back as Porthos walked past him towards the bar, and towards the lovely blush which greeted him there.  


	38. Chapter 38

Chapter XXXVIII

 

Anne could not remember doing anything but sleeping. It was the first time she did not have to worry about mounting her horse for hours after she had rested. She was in a safe place, inside, a fire warming her, and powerful sunshine often gliding on her face. Lying on a hard floor was not even an issue anymore, because she was so exhausted that every time she would wake up to take care of her son, it would only be a matter of minutes before she surrendered to slumber once more.

More often that not during that first day at d'Artagnan's estate, Aramis would be sleeping or dozing off next to her, strong arms around the baby's tiny frame, keeping him warm, protecting him, making him feel loved and cherished. The most important person of them all.

Aramis had been bemused by the conversation with Tréville, annoyed that the former Captain could think so little of his own life to dare ride back to Paris. However, he had no doubt that if he enlisted Porthos' assistance, the older man would never start this perilous adventure. He was too respected and appreciated to be left on his own, putting his existence in jeopardy. The other Musketeers ought to be safe and well. Discharging them all of their commissions alone was a great shame and the King would not humiliate them further. Louis XIII might be a capricious ruler, he knew how to be magnanimous. Sometimes.

It comforted Aramis to watch the woman sleep so peacefully, her body more relaxed than it was on the road, and her face undisturbed by nightmares. He hated the nights when they had to wake her up because she was thrashing, whimpering out of fear and even crying; all because of terrible dreams about their tragedies. Her attitude while they were travelling southward had been exemplary, nothing less that what he would have expected of such a brilliant and courageous woman. She still amazed him sometimes, his heart swelling with all the new aspects of her life he discovered and admired.

This life she had chosen for the sake of their son, for their sake, it might end up being a better lifestyle than what she was used to. Princesses seldom chose what would make their existence, fates in the hands of their parents and diplomacy. Surviving as an outlaw was dangerous beyond belief, there had been several instances which proved it on the road. His thigh throbbed as a bad reminder. Anne had never hesitated, though, always moving forward, helping as best as she could, helping more than she should, growing out to become the soldiers' equal.

Aramis smoothed her matted hair, blond curls tangled in a braid, weeds trapped in it. She looked like a child of the forest, and it was easy to forget for a few seconds she used to be Queen. It was more natural to forget that the baby squirming in his arms used to be the heir to the throne of France. From the very first time he had caught a glimpse of the rosy cheeks and tiny body nestled against Marguerite, all these months ago at the Palace, Aramis had never truly considered him as a Prince. His duty was to think as such, to protect his mother, protect himself, and protect the newborn.

It used to be a torture, a slow ordeal burning him up from the inside out, gnawing at his heart, eating him like poison. He would have never believed beforehand that there may be such a strong bond between a baby and the man who had sired him. He would have never imagined himself as a dotting father. As a soldier always on the road, always involved in great missions and each day facing the risks of death, having children was not a question to even consider.

Everything had changed with Louis, though. Whether the feeling aroused solely because he could not claim the baby as his and it was unfair, Aramis could never tell. The only thing that mattered was that he had discovered how big a heart could grow, how much room it could accommodate for such a small creature. It used to sicken him to have to keep watch while the King played with the heir; vision blurry with wishful thinking, unable to focus correctly on the task at hand. There had been days in Paris when the emotional pain would turn into such a physical one that completing his duties as a Musketeer was simply impossible. How else would have d'Artagnan bet him so many times at sparring?

Yet, now, there he was. Running for his life, battling with a receding pain in his leg, but his son in his arms. _His_ son. In spite of the tumult around him, there was peace in his heart and mind from this thought. It _was_ selfish to seek solace for his own self while it had destroyed the King and perhaps the kingdom. His Majesty would rise from it, monarchs always did. They took new wives, new mistresses, started new wars, raised new taxes, and then the past was just a distant memory. History said as much. Meanwhile, Aramis could focus on the family he thought he would never have, with the people he did not dare think could be his.

One more high-pitched cry brought him back to reality, a present time where the baby was not the cheerful soul his father wished he could always be. Aramis patted his back, humming softly, and he did not care if Porthos believed him to be a dotting father, which was so unlike his natural personality. His actual personality was to care for the people he loved and the child was the first person on this list.

_“There, there. You're going to wake your mother and we don't want that, now, do we? She is tired, she's been incredible. The best and I know you love her as much as I do. Sssshhhh.”_

The voice was so familiar to him now, a focus in the midst of Louis' trouble, strong lips uttering warm and singing words, almost a lullaby even when Aramis was not reciting one.

_“Would you like some fresh air? It's nice outside, you know. We're in d'Artagnan's farm. It's very green and I reckon there are many sticks and rocks to play with. Would you like that? New toys to play with? I promise we won't tell Maman. Our secret.”_

Clutching the child close to his chest, one fist grabbing his dirty shirt and yanking on the golden chain of the crucifix, Aramis stood up awkwardly. Constance was sitting in the courtyard, her face turned toward the radiant sun.

“The Captain is in the stables, well, what is left of the stables. I don't know what you told him but he seemed even more upset than before,” she said, turning her head in his direction and prepared to scold him. Her features relaxed once she noticed the child in his arms, the idea forgotten.

“Well, hello there. How is he?” She stood up, a bright smile on her face. The child looked at her with big eyes.

“Still upset, but I did not want him to wake up Anne. Fresh air will do him good. Do you remember Constance, Louis? _Do you remember her? She used to stay with us before. She's a great friend of Maman.”_

“I don't understand Spanish, Aramis,” she reminded him sternly.

“Porthos will teach you. He's a better teacher than he is a pupil. I said you were a friend of Anne.”

“I hope I am.”

“You know you are, Constance. She would not have confided so much in you if she did not trust you completely.” She rejoiced at the idea, and the acknowledgment of the deeper bond between her and the other woman. “Would you do me a favour?”

Aramis did not have to ask twice. Constance happily gathered the baby in her arms, offering the chair to the soldier whose balance could not be trusted for a long period of time. She had longed to hold the child again, and it was rewarding to see that he did not mind.

“He's grown,” she stated. “He will be very strong when he'll have recover from what is hurting him. He does take after you.”

“If you ask Porthos, he will doubtless say that yes, Louis whines as much as I do.” Constance laughed at Aramis' frowning face. It was difficult to fully realize that they were reunited, that they were safe and more or less well, and that despite their turmoil, there were still moments when they allowed themselves to joke.

“Whining? Handsome boys like yourself do not whine,” she cooed, bouncing the child, holding the wooden toy Aramis had given her and using it to distract Louis from his pain. She was rewarded by a squeal, fingers moving rapidly to catch the familiar little horse. Aramis smiled in spite of his pounding heart and erratic breathing.

“Why don't you ask him? I'm certain he will state otherwise.”

“There they are!” Constance exclaimed, turning around to notice Porthos and d'Artagnan riding back at the end of the dirt path. “They've been gone for hours! Where have you been?”

She sounded like a rebuking mother whose children had been up to some mischief, even though the soldier knew she would always be worried for them when they were separated. When they were all together as a group, they could stand up for one another. When they were apart, it was more delicate to do so. Louis squealed louder as he recognized Porthos approaching, the toy forgotten.

“Porthos was becoming acquainted with a charming young lady,” d'Artagnan explained, kissing the top of Constance's head. He let go of his reins, letting the horse drift a few steps in search of weeds to munch on. She relaxed in his embrace, the baby studying this new person with interest, all the while sucking on his fingers, a gesture Anne often prevented him from doing. She believed it to be rude.

Aramis raised an eyebrow at his grinning best friend.

“Is that so?”

“I wouldn't call her a proper 'lady', but she was quite charming nonetheless.”

“Didn't you go to purchase food?” Porthos was taken aback by Tréville's cold voice coming from behind them. While Constance had only been chastising them playfully, the older man seemed genuinely annoyed at the display of casualness and lack of gravity from his former soldiers. As far as he was concerned, Porthos could do both, but he had been serious for a very long time already, so he deserved a few moments of respite.

“We did buy food. A large amount even.” He gestured to the many bags strapped to both horses. “I won't refrain from enjoying myself from time to time. I won't spend a miserable life simply because we had to abandon everything.” He held Tréville's stare, defiant until eventually the other shook his head, jaw set and eyes narrowed. Tréville did not reply. There was too much animosity between him and the others, and Aramis did not like it at all. It was not how he had imagined their reunion would be.

“And you shouldn't, Porthos. Does she have a name, your girl?”

“I think... Was it Charlotte? I think it was...” He scratched his beard, eliciting laughter from his friends. Constance looked at him intently, then at d'Artagnan, studying his face carefully. Then, she slapped his arm, startling him.

“Ouch! What did you do that for?”

“You've been drinking!”

“A couple of beers, yes. It _is_ hot.”

“With what money?”

“Mine,” Porthos said, although his slim wealth had considerably lessened because of their little detour to the tavern. Aramis was stifling bouts of laughter, wincing because it hurt. D'Artagnan did not seem content to be under Constance's scrutiny and ire.

“And don't you think that we couldn't have had a better use for the coins you wasted on alcohol and women?”

“We didn't waste any money on women!”

“I sure hope you did not!”

The baby joined in her shouts, squealing so loud it was almost a screech. She focused a few seconds on him, her eyes shooting daggers at the young soldier who was busy ignoring her by unloading the goods they had bought. He was eager to show they had done some good deeds while they were in the village. Porthos found it rather enjoyable to watch his friend be the target of her fury. Aramis had to give in to the laughter, his cheeks hurt from holding it in. It was refreshing, it was a reminiscence of old days when they could act recklessly and not endanger the future of the country.

“Where are we going to find money to feed all of us now that you gave most of it to the innkeeper?”

“There are many ways, Constance.”

“Let me rephrase it: ways which would not put us all in jeopardy?”

“Aren't they adorable?” Aramis asked Porthos on the side. Constance glared at them both, but they did not stop smirking. His friend concurred, nodding.

“They bicker like an old married couple.”

“Even worse than Athos and Milady.”

“Which is not a feat I imagined could be achieved. What? Don't yell at me!” Porthos joked, raising one arm in front of his face. It made Aramis chuckle even louder. The baby did not know where to set his attention, too many events were happening at once, and it truly seemed that it was enough to lessen the pain he was in. It was definitely enough to lessen the pain his father was in.

All of a sudden, the argument had stopped, Constance's face was a mask of serenity and contentment. Not an ounce of anger displayed on it. The arm d'Artagnan had put around her waist did not trouble her, whereas she had just chided away from his hand on her shoulder minutes before.

“Actually, there's something we haven't told you yet.”

“We married on the road.”

Porthos almost choked on his laughter. Aramis almost lost his balance, the chair rattling to the ground as he stood up too quickly, ignoring the throbbing in his leg.

“You what?”

“Are you joking?”

“When?”

“But now you are stuck with _him_ for the rest of your life!” Porthos barely staggered after d'Artagnan had pushed against his shoulder at the last remark. “Good luck, Constance.” d'Artagnan shoved him again. His arm was so tight around Constance's waist that she wobbled because of the move. There was such a bright smile on her face, though, that it did not matter. Before she could add anything, or answer more pressing questions, she felt strong arms around her shoulders. She was pressed powerfully to Porthos' chest along with d'Artagnan and the child in her arms.

“You'll always be my favourite sister.” She laughed at his determined tone.

Aramis joined in the hug, until the baby was squirming so much that they had to disentangle. It was the first time she had been part of such an embrace, and although she had no doubt that she belonged in their close circle, it made it even more real. She had gained a bigger family than just the man she loved, the man holding her hand firmly, the man kissing her cheek, the man she had been so angry at but could not bear to shout at now.

Tréville watched the scene from the outside, always glad to see Constance and d'Artagnan happy. After everything that had befallen them, they needed to hang on to what was real. It had been a surprise on the road when d'Artagnan had suggested marriage, Constance scolding him and urging him to be serious because it was not the time or the place to jest. The former Captain had often seen d'Artagnan jest, but it had not been one of these moments. There had been such a delighted sparkle in the woman's eyes that it had been worth the delay and the danger.

The young man may not know what the future held for them. They may die any day, be discovered by Red Guards or betrayed by strangers. If there was one thing he was certain of, it was the love he had for Constance, so it only seemed logical for him that it be official. It was not the ceremony he would have wished for under other circumstances, because none of their friends were with them, but Athos, Porthos and Aramis had been in their mind the entire time. Even Anne.

Constance felt at peace with the world, now that her life was truly tied to d'Artagnan. Ever since the solar eclipse she had known it deep in her heart, but it was comforting to make it official, to take this important step in their common life, to start one together.

“Congratulations,” Aramis said, reclaiming his son who was agitated by the display of emotions, eyes unable to settle and screeches making the adults wince yet smile. His father kissed Constance's cheek soundly, confident that her husband would not try to push him away. He smirked at d'Artagnan above her head.

“I propose a celebratory banquet tonight!” Porthos boasted, flinging his arms around, basking in the feeling that they may enjoy themselves for a few hours before they would inevitably have to deal with more important issues.

“If we indeed are running low on money, I would not deem it wise.”

“Oh, Captain! It is always good for our spirits.”

“You will be the first to complain when we will only have carrots to eat in a couple of days,” Aramis stated, busying his son with the crucifix which soon found its way inside the tiny mouth.

“We're almost in July,” d'Artagnan reminded them. “You may not be aware of it but soon, it will be the harvest season. Many farms will be employing more men to help.”

Porthos scoffed.

“You're the farm boy, not me.”

“It's either that or we will starve.”

“Don't be so dramatic, Captain. I'll be more than happy to help once I have recovered,” Aramis promised.

His best friend glared at him, frowning. It was not an appealing prospect for Porthos. Working in the fields was a task he had never done. It was so remote from what he was used to. He had no desire to leave his friends, though, because he had no idea where he would rather be. If they were to remain in Gascony until Aramis had healed and Anne as well as the baby had regained their strength, he may have to do what people on the countryside did.

“All right,” he decided. Tréville seemed satisfied. “Are we all staying here for the time being then?”

“It is pointless to push forward when we are not absolutely effective. He's been better but he may be upset again very soon.”

“And I'm afraid he will, Aramis. I think he's teething,” Constance explained. Bewildered, he swiftly put one of his fingers in his own mouth to clean it, then earned a displeased cry as he took the crucifix from his son. Louis was satisfied to be given a strong finger to suck on while his father felt for teeth. She was correct. How could he have missed it? He let the child gnaw at his finger, which was what he needed to feel better. Aramis sat down on the chair.

“Captain? Are you staying as well?” he asked, uncertainty clouding his voice. Tréville considered the question for some time.

“It would make one less person to feed if I went.”

“Where would you go, though?” Porthos was not pleased by the prospect. He, more than the others, was attached to Tréville, more affection and history between them both. “You should stay here with us until we decide on a new plan, if we ever do. I have gambled to win money before. I could do it again.”

“Or you may lose it all.” Porthos rolled his eyes, d'Artagnan scoffed, Aramis raised an eyebrow.

“Please! It's me we are talking about. I _never_ lose all my money at cards.”

“We could ask Anne for her earrings once more,” Aramis suggested, proceeding to explain to their companions how they had gathered some money at the beginning of their journey. Tréville looked thoughtful, yet accepting. It was the best solution now that they could not rely on a steady pay.

“But I cannot attempt this nearby. This is how the Red Guards found us the first time. I ought to put some distance between us, perhaps even lead them on a false track, who knows?”

“I'll go with you,” Tréville decided. It may prevent Porthos from being distracting from his mission. Besides, one week waiting idly in the deserted farm was becoming too much to handle. He required action. The other Musketeers looked at him, who appeared to be angry at them all, yet eager to help any way he could.

Being back on the road, even if it was only temporary, did not appeal to Porthos. At least he would be with a person who mattered much to him, the closest he had to a parent.

 

 


	39. Chapter 39

Chapter XXXIX

 

Anne was awoken by domestic noises, disturbances which were unfamiliar, shouts and muffled orders, quiet chuckles, loud exclamations. She kept her eyes closed as long as she could, remembering that she was safe, with people who cared deeply about her. Yet they were comfortable enough to carry on with their lives while the woman who used to rule over them, if only at her husband's side, was nearby. Attempting to decipher who was saying what, who was being chastised by Constance, who was rebuked for making fun of his friend, who was ordered to stop moving and care for himself and the baby.

There was a smile on her face when her eyelids eventually fluttered open. Blinded by the afternoon sunshine irradiating in the large room, it took some time to assess her surroundings, and even longer for all her companions to realize she was awake. Self-conscious as always, she smoothed her hair and her dress. She was rewarded with happy squeals once her son had seen her.

“I do not like it when he does this,” she said sternly to Aramis, staring at Louis and the fingers he was munching on. It occurred to her later that it was not the first thing she should have said. She ought to greet them all, to inquire about Aramis' health.

“He's hurting, Ana. Constance thinks he is teething and I suppose she is quite right.” Anne looked around at the other woman who was busying herself by inspecting newly-acquired food. The soldiers were also turning their back on her, offering them whatever privacy they may have while discussing the child's behaviour.

Anne was not used to having personal discussions in plain sight. She was used to living with many people. However, most of the people she used to live with had been around to serve and obey her orders. Here, in Gascony, it felt so much different. It was almost a brotherhood, a family, and there was nothing to hide from one another.

The news was disturbing, especially as she had not thought of it once before. Her son was growing, and such a development should have been expected. Nobody had told her it would, though. She had never been around newborns until Louis, and apart from providing love, she had not been asked to do anything else, she had not been provided with useful information. A Queen should not bother with trivial matters, even if they concerned her offspring.

She was the one who did not let the baby suck on his fingers, or on sticks, or on his toys, or on his blanket, actions he had been doing more and more lately. It may take longer than she thought before she became the great mother she yearned to be.

“What else can we do to ease the pain?” she asked, resting her hand on Aramis' shoulder, using it as a help to kneel by his side. He was sitting in one of the only chairs left in the farm.

“In our conditions, I fear nothing much. It would have been the same in Paris, Ana. Being royal does not make it easier, trust me.” She was still worried, smoothing blond curls growing longer. Louis' hair was hers, but the smile on his face definitely belonged to Aramis. So did the eyes. His entire face was the striking image of the man holding him. Whether she was the only one seeing it, she could not tell. It may have been a blessing that Rochefort uncovered the truth so early.

“What may I do to help?” Anne inquired. She was famished, her body ached, but hours of sleep and assurance that they would not move again during the night were enough to lift her spirits.

“I was going to start cooking. Would you like to lend a hand?”

d'Artagnan raised an eyebrow at the suggestion, remembering too well the last time he had tasted a meal prepared by her Majesty. Charred food was not overly appealing. Porthos slapped his shoulder to stop him from gaping.

“She's improved,” he hissed, hiding his smirk from the women.

Anne was more than glad to learn some valuable skills, the conversation flowing effortlessly, although she was clueless about most of the technical terms Constance used. The room which used to be the kitchen was as badly damaged as the rest of the building. Most of the utensils were missing. With a simple knife and boiling water, Constance could work miracles. She smiled brightly once the compliment had been paid to her.

It was echoed by Anne after she was told why they were having such a big dinner, because Porthos deemed it necessary to celebrate their recent marriage. Still holding her knife, Anne embraced her, delighted at the news. At least her friend had found some joy in the midst of their tumultuous new life. In Paris, when all she might do was observe others in Court, she had noticed how Constance and the young soldier looked at each other. Being together was natural for some people; it was for them.

She would always live with Aramis now, so long as they were not discovered or betrayed; she was certain of it. He would never abandon her, and she had no other refuge to seek; not that she wanted to. Circumstances had brought them together, unearthing a love which should not exist, which could never be acknowledged publicly. They were bound to live a life of sins. Their entire relationship had started out as one. It bothered her enormously, it was not the way she had been raised, perhaps not the way _he_ had been raised. On the other hand, being close to Aramis, and finding out a lot about his life, it made it appear natural. She could not be troubled by this. She would not.

Tréville avoided looking at her while they shared a meal which was not frugal. It was the first time in weeks she ate inside a safe place, albeit without a proper door or windows. It was refreshing to only listen to the men -friends- banter and decide what they would do around the house. Although she was not taking any part in it, it felt as if she belonged with them. She was one of them. They were not careful with their language, and when d'Artagnan addressed her as “your Majesty”, Porthos swatted his head before she had the chance to remind him it was not necessary anymore.

Aramis' presence by her side was comforting, as was the light weight of her son on her lap. Her mind was swirling with possibilities, many nights spent in a similar fashion. She wished they no longer had to be nervous about enemies. It would always be, the many weapons gathered in one corner of the room a powerful reminder of their situation. Anne wished for hours when she may forget about it, where she may draw some contentment from her family and the people she loved.

Staying late at the table, sitting on it or slouching in chairs, eating with their fingers, laughing so raucously it sounded like an animal, it was not the company she was used to while eating. Being a Queen might have been the best position in France, the most privileged and envied. People may have wanted to take her place. Anne realized she had not been as lucky as she might have believed in the past. It was better to be around true friends, to have normal interactions instead of being considered as someone distant and foreign to real life. Real life might be ruthless, it was worth living when it gave her such joy. Simple things, events she would not have dreamed of two months beforehand.

She twined her fingers with Aramis' when she saw him rub at his wound. It was healing nicely so she would not let him mess with the work. He grinned, holding her hand to his lips so he may kiss it. His thigh itched badly, and he had to give in to the urge. She was no match for his strength.

“It will never be better if you don't stop,” Anne stated, frowning.

“He's stubborn. You'll have to watch over him even more while I'm gone.” She smiled at Porthos. It was not pleasant to know he was leaving the farm so shortly after their arrival. His motivation was understandable, but if it could have been delayed further, it may have been appreciated. The soldier was such a great support. Anne had always known it, yet he had been so wonderful to her, her son and even Aramis lately. Without him, they would all be dead.

“I will.” Aramis merely scoffed at his best friend's cheeky grin. “I pray you will not be gone for long.”

“Foix is not so far away. We should be back in a week.”

“It might be a good idea to find more suitable surfaces to sleep on,” Tréville suggested. He was relieved to witness how at ease the Queen was with the soldiers, how healthy she appeared to be in spite of the circumstances. The baby was bothered but it was not unusual for newborns and it made no doubt that soon it would only be a bad memory. They would be safe at the farm, with d'Artagnan to protect them and Aramis, too, when he would have recovered.

“I'm sure we may find some useful things upstairs. We weren't motivated to investigate up there while we didn't know if you would join us,” d'Artagnan explained. “Now, though, we need beds, or at least more comfortable sleeping quarters.”

“I am sure sewing is no more difficult then embroidering. I may help.” Constance did not have the courage to tell her that it _was_ quite different. Another task she would teach Anne.

“Even Aramis can do it! His stitches are marvelous.” Porthos burst out laughing at Aramis' outraged face.

These jests had been part of her everyday life for weeks now. Every single one of them warmed her heart. She missed them as soon as Tréville and Porthos were gone the following day. It was a joy to constantly be with Aramis and Louis, though, and to do so away from danger. One of the men was always keeping watch, Aramis often doing it with the child in his arms.

There never was a dull minute on the estate. Despite their predicament, it felt oddly natural to tend to the house until her body ached so much she had to stop. There were no more barriers between the four of them. The first time Constance called her by her name, it did not feel wrong at all. It sounded as if it was meant to be.

She was not meant to be a fantastic housewife, though. There was little left on the upper level of the building. Rooms which used to be chambers were empty or devastated by the fire. The only linens they could salvage were mouldy and useless. It would have to wait until they were reunited with the two other soldiers.

“She's exhausted,” Constance whispered one night while they all crowded around the small fire. Even if the weather was usually gorgeous and they enjoyed basking in the sun, there was a summer storm looming above their heads. The men had barricaded the broken windows as best as they could. Still, the wind gushed at the building. The sound had lulled both the mother and the son to sleep.

Aramis agreed, his hand on Anne's back, rubbing to soothe the ache in her bones. She was amazing, never stopping, barely frowning or hesitating whenever she had to perform something she had never done before. D'Artagnan had managed to teach her how to light a fire, she had learned about to make meat pies, much to their delight.

She was asleep more often than not, tiredness from the long journey superimposed on the tiredness of mundane and common tasks she had never done in her life.

“She does not seem to mind.”

“If you had told me a few months ago that we would be here today....”

“I suppose you would have told me to stop drinking and go home.” d'Artagnan laughed at his friend's answer. Everything about their situation was surreal, and everyday he assumed he would wake up back at the Garrison. It never happened. Every day he was learning to live in the close vicinity of the woman who used to be his Queen.

It was not overly challenging, though, especially since he had Constance by his side. Whether they were married or not made no difference to him. It simply felt more powerful and enjoyable to be able to call her his wife, only to gaze at her delighted smile. Aramis and Anne had put them in this position, Rochefort had some say in it as well, but the young soldier could always make the best of the worst moments. He had almost lost Constance many times in the past. Their future was unclear, but he desired nothing more than to spend every single second with her. Officially.

It was less intricate to show affection toward Aramis when there was another couple around. It had not often been wise on the road with Porthos, but at the farm, Anne rarely thought twice about it.

“She could pass for an ordinary woman if I didn't no who she really was.”

“And who is she?” Aramis asked, tightening his hold on Anne.

“I may not refer to her as such, only to avoid everybody's fury, but it will take longer to not see the Queen in her.”

“I don't reckon any of us will ever be able to.” Aramis felt his health improve, the result of hours of rest, no more horse-riding, and the sight of Anne finding a new place in the world. One part of his heart agreed with his young friend, and always would. She had been a Queen, there was no denying it. Perhaps the thought would dim with time. She was his Ana, now. And nothing would ever tear them apart. At least not of their own accord.

When Porthos and Tréville had not returned after a week, they all started to worry about it, yet did not dare speak of it out loud. Many obstacles may have risen on their path, but it did not necessarily mean something terrible had befallen them.

Aramis was walking more and more on his own, there was less staggering and he managed to breathe evenly doing so. The wound would leave a scar on his leg, a new one, a reminder of what he had fought for. He would miss Anne caring for his injury, the soft touch of her fingers on his skin, her sweet smile every time she could notice how nicely his thigh looked.

“Please, make sure to tell Porthos how well-behaved I was.” They were inside, hunched over a basin of cold water they had used to bathe the baby who now playing with his toy. Anne was carefully applying some water to the wound, her own hair dripping from the swift rinse she had given it. It should have been rude to behave as such, locks of her long hair matted to her shoulders, her back dripping wet. She hardly felt bad for it. It was refreshing, cooling.

“You've been very good indeed.” There was a delicate edge to her smile, so wide it reached her eyes. It was not often that it did, too many problems clouding their minds. Tucking at her hand, making her look at him, Aramis willed her to stop her ministrations.

“Ana?”

“Yes?”

“Are you content?” The weight of the question took her by surprise.

“I...Of course I am. Why do you ask?”

“I wanted to make sure. Everything we've been through....You could have changed your mind a thousand times.”

“What would have I done if it were the case? Where may I go? No, wait. These are not questions I wish to answer, because they are pointless. I love _you_ , Aramis. I love our baby and if I have to strive and lead a hard life in order to retain you both, I will.”

He smiled at her honesty, her voice so firm that it dared him to challenge her opinion. His thumb rubbed over her hand, her other one pushing locks of long curls behind his ear. She may need to ask Constance to cut it a little.

“I pray you will think alike in a couple of months, or when it's winter and cold, or in a year.”

“I will not shed this thought, be it in six months or twelve. I'll still be here next year and you'll still be around to help d'Artagnan harvest whatever it is Constance convinces him to cultivate.”

More resolution poured out of her, because it was the only solid reality in her life. There was not another lifestyle she may envision for herself. It was not the peaceful life she had hoped for, but it had been the foolish whim of a dreaming monarch to believe she might escape to live out of love and sunshine. Ordinary people struggled and fought for their choices. She would be no different.

“Are we to become farmers then?” Aramis raised a quizzical eyebrow. Anne crunched her face.

“At least Louis will have plenty of space to learn how to walk. Plenty of fresh air, far better than what he would have had in Palaces or in Paris.”

“Here? Do you want to stay here?”

“I'm not sure, Aramis. I must confess that going to Spain was a charming prospect. It still is, isn't it?” It showed plainly on his face, as well. It would be safer in Spain. Yet, being on horseback for days at end with a growing baby was not enchanting. At least not in the near future. “And yet, I only wish to settle somewhere for a while.”

“Then I'll make sure that no one can find us here and you will both be safe.”

Being able to hold her in his arms whenever he desired it still bewildered him. It was a joy but also a reward. She was so attuned to him that it was seemed obvious that they were meant for each other, however wrong it might have been. Aramis should have known that it was _love_ which would doom him one day.

Flushed against his chest, Anne standing between his legs, bending her head to kiss his lips, hands on both sides of his head, wet hair tickling his cheeks, babbles in the background and sunshine warming his back. One second to forget he was a traitor, one second to forget what his treason was. He was committing no treason by sharing deep feelings with the most precious person in his life. He would never thank God enough for his luck.

D'Artagnan stopped abruptly on the missing doorstep, his intrusion too noisy to go unnoticed. Aramis turned around, the arm loosely wrapped around Anne's waist falling to his side when he realized how distressed the other looked.

“Porthos' back. Alone.”

He seemed unharmed as he dismounted his horse. The journey back from Foix had been a hindrance, he was exhausted and furious at Tréville. Constance grabbed the fat purse he threw at her, brow creased with worry.

“Where's the Captain?” Her question was echoed by the two other soldiers joining them in the courtyard. Porthos spent the next minutes cursing profusely. There was so much rage in him that a good fight would have released all the tension in his muscles.

“I have no damn idea. He's....Ugh, one night he was there and the next...gone. I mean I...”

“When?”

Porthos dragged his hand through his hair, his eyes so dark Anne was a little afraid. Not for herself, but about what he was thinking about, what he may do next. Aramis had forgotten it might hurt to rest his left leg on the ground. Realization of what may have happened in Foix downing on him, his conversation with Tréville coming back to the forth. He should have seen it coming.

“A couple of days ago, I'd say. We'd been very lucky, or people in the city are not as good at playing cards as I might have assumed. I should have notice something was amiss when he said we should celebrate accordingly.” It was his fault, Porthos was aware of it. Drinking a bit was understandable; drinking so much he woke up with no idea of how he had reached his bed was not, especially when they had to watch their back constantly.

“I woke up and... I was alone. He didn't say anything. I tried to ask the innkeeper but he couldn't help. I don't know whether he's well. I don't know whether he's....” _Dead_. He could not say it. Constance cringed, so did Anne.

“He's gone back to Paris,” Aramis stated. Porthos turned around sharply, his jaw clenched, fists balled.

“How do you know? Did you _know_ he was going to abandon me?” It was what hurt the most. Porthos had hoped a few days with Tréville would lessen the tension, that they would be reacquainted and would rekindle the strong bond they used to have. Not one second he had supposed the older man would leave him behind without an explanation. If there had not been the women, the baby and his friends to come back to, Porthos would have chased after his Captain, even though he had no clue where he might have disappeared.

“I would have told you if I thought he would actually act on his decision. He mentioned he wanted to ride back and make sure all the others were safe. But....I foolishly thought I had convinced him otherwise.” Aramis resented himself for it. His friend shook his head, exhaustion plain on his face, yet hands clutching his reins.

“I'll go after him, then.”

“Porthos, no!” They all would have persuaded him otherwise. Anne was the fastest, stepping forward, the baby recognizing the soldier he liked and smiling, arms stretched, squirming in her embrace. Porthos cocked his head, as surprised as the others.

“ It bothers me immensely that the Captain is gone and I wish we could do something to help, yet...I am certain he had good reasons to leave without telling you beforehand. You've risked your life enough already, Porthos.”

“I...no. It's all messed up. Athos is gone, and now Tréville is gone and....no. I can't.” She had hardly ever seen him so confused and distressed. His eyes roamed their small circle once more and all of a sudden, his shoulders slumped.

“Sorry.” Before any of the others could react, he was back on his horse, galloping so fast, yet not fast enough to distance Aramis. The pain was forgotten as he broke into a run to the stables, mounted an unsaddled horse and rushed after his friend.

“Where do you think you're going?” he exclaimed above the wind and the sounds of horses trampling. It was a challenge to keep his balance on the animal, fingers gripping the mane strongly. Porthos pondered ignoring him. Instead, he growled.

“Go back to them.”

“Not if it means leaving you alone in the wild, probably riding to your death.”

“What about him, eh? Are you so inclined to let him die?”

“He won't, Porthos. He's too clever and experienced for that.” Aramis willed his voice not to shake. Every thing that might go wrong was swirling in his mind, invading his thoughts, and his heart burned for Tréville, because it was _his_ fault. He had imagined that reaching Gascony meant his actions would no longer have dreadful consequences on people close to him. How wrong he was.

“I should have been more careful. If I had been more focused, he would not have vanished. It's my fault.”

“No!” Aramis pushed his horse faster, blocking Porthos' path and forcing him to slow down to a complete stop. They glared at one another, Porthos fuming. “If someone has to be blamed, it's me. It'll always be me, Porthos. He's gone because he believed it his duty to right my wrongs. He's doing it to protect us, you included. You're too damn stubborn and you would never have agreed to his decision if you had been aware of it.”

The words made sense, although Porthos only wished he did not hear them. He did not want his best friend to know how conflicted he was, how uncertain he was of his future actions, of unsure he was of what his life may be now. It had all been locked away while they were travelling southward, his mind set on escorting the woman and the baby to a safe haven. He had achieved so much. What now?

D'Artagnan had Constance, Aramis had Anne and the child. Who did Porthos have? He had brothers, he had imagined he would have Tréville to keep him company. Who did he have now? Who could he turn to to talk about what truly mattered?

There was such a dark shadow on his face that Aramis was taken aback. Porthos was upset, so was he. There was something else, something he could not quite understand, something unsettling.

“Where did you think you were going, Porthos?”

“To Paris.”

“Is that so?”

“Are you calling me a liar?” Such animosity, such anger ready to be unleashed. Aramis stood his ground.

“Nobody wants you to go.”

“What I do is nobody's business but mine, Aramis.”

“Why are you running away, then?”

“I ain't. I'm going to rescue Tréville.”

“He may not require it. Why are you so eager to leave once more? So quickly?”

Porthos groaned, annoyed, hands loose on his reins.

“You wouldn't understand.”

“I've been told I could be rather smart at times.”

“Will you go to Spain?” Porthos inquired instead.

“Anne is not keen on riding again, and I admit it is not overly appealing to me either. We'll stay with d'Artagnan a while longer, and so will you.”

“You're in no position to give orders.”

“You're my friend. You're my _brother_. And I can't, for the love of God, understand what is happening inside your head.”

“Listen, I've brought them here, they're both safe and it's what matters.”

“Are you leaving?” Aramis exclaimed, confused beyond measure, faced with the most dreaded separation of all.

“I'm going to Paris, yes.”

“But will you come back? Say you will, Porthos. I don't want to drive you away.”

“You're not. I'm the best option when it comes to tracking Tréville. You've all got ties here now, but there's nothing for me, not really.”

Riding had left Aramis in a haze, pain awakening and stretching his left thigh, the fresh scar blazing hot against his trousers. How ever powerful it was, it was not enough to dampen the meaning behind Porthos' statements.

“Is that what you truly believe? Do you think I will let you run away so easily?”

“I'd like to see you try. You've got no weapon, and you'll never make it far with an unprepared mount.” Porthos scoffed as Aramis realized he was right. He only had his words on his side, and they would never be sufficient. Not this time.

“I can take care of myself, Aramis. You know it. There's nothing to worry about. Tell them I said good bye and I'll be back soon.”

Circling his friend's horse, Porthos came so close his saddle grazed the other animal's side. He hated to leave again, he wished to be done with riding, but being a traitor was not a quiet life. It resembled the life of a soldier, although everything had to be done more carefully to avoid death. The decision to chase Tréville had been made in a split second, yet there was no other option for him. He was born to protect others, and those close to him so often drifted away that he could not stand idle while the older man was probably engaged to meet his demise. Porthos may not be fit for a happy life. It should have bothered him. The rush of excitement and anger flooding in his veins, making his heart pound and his fingers tingle.

“You'll hate me for a while. It's all right. I've hated you for a while before. It'll pass.”

“Take this.” Porthos raised an eyebrow as Aramis yanked the crucifix from around his neck and handed it to his friend.

“What for?”

“Take it and I expect you to return it. Louis needs it.”

Porthos pocketed the necklace carefully. There was no point in arguing further. He clasped Aramis' shoulder so tight it would have hurt anybody else. There was no need to be worried about his friend, Aramis knew it perfectly well. Porthos was the best soldier he had ever met, perhaps the best in their regiment, ruthless and strong, never backing down from a challenge.

“Have a room ready for me when I'll come back!” he shouted, looking behind his shoulder as he darted away from his best friend, away from the others, away from the farm. He allowed his heart a few seconds to regret leaving them all behind, then focused entirely on his next mission.

Aramis stood still on his own horse long after the dust had settled in the path of Porthos' sprinting mount. Hatred and rage filled his heart. He felt useless, unable to keep the people he cared about close and safe. Letting Athos go had been one thing, mainly because he was not by himself and that Milady and he had decided to leave Paris and the country altogether. It was different with Porthos. It always was. What a fool. A brave fool, but a fool nonetheless.

They spent a terrible night at the farm. D'Artagnan had argued endlessly about going after Porthos, and even though Constance agreed that it was dangerous to let him go alone, a part of her did not wish for her husband to leave her side. Besides, finding Porthos would be almost impossible. He could become invisible if he so desired.

Anne was upset beyond measure that the friend she had started to make was gone, but more upset to see how it affected Aramis. His leg hurt more than it used to. Being separated from his best friend was worse than receding pain. The throb would fade. He would not feel at peace until he was convinced Porthos was safe and well.

“It's none of your doing, Aramis,” Anne said softly. They were alone, Constance and d'Artagnan gone for a walk to clear their mind, the baby with them. Aramis had hardly eaten anything at dinner. It was not dark enough to hide the worry on his face. “Porthos knows what he is doing.”

“He should be here with us.”

“I wish he was.”

He sighed, too loud, turning his head to look at her. This is what he wanted, but for some reason, he had always imagined Porthos would stay with them forever.

“I will not leave you,” she assured him, her hand stroking his arm. It seemed that these days, she was the one providing the most comfort. What a turn of events. He used to be the caring one, and it felt good. It was a better feeling to care for him. “I'll stay with you for as long as we are allowed.”

Another sigh, not a sad one. His eyes closed briefly, shutting the outside world. Willing his mind to revolve solely around the woman, her quiet whispers, her soft fingers brushing his hair, her small lips kissing away the trouble on his brow, on his cheeks, on his mouth. In his mouth. Inside.

The tension in his body, in his muscles giving way to warmth. Silky fingertips grazing his shoulders, fumbling with his dirty shirt. He shuddered as she firmly gathered the material in her hands, lifting it up until her hands were flush against his bare stomach. More shivers, and a resolute mind which did not make her tremble. She would never be tired of being free to touch him whenever she wanted. There would never be a resistance on his part.

“I'll always be there.”

 


	40. Chapter 40

 Chapter XL

The days following Portho's departure were bitter. Aramis was sullen, hardly speaking. D'Artagnan was annoyed and ashamed to be left behind while Tréville and his friend might face danger. He was a soldier now, not a farmer. He should be fighting off enemies, not wondering how to make his estate livable or what crops they should cultivate.

In spite of her own feelings, Constance was their anchor, the force driving them forward, urging them to wake up, eat, be busy. Anything that might take their minds off their turmoil. Porthos had left them a good amount of money, enough for her to convince her husband to escort her to the closest town. They bought warm linens and other supplies the men would need to accommodate the house. They could not let it in such a dilapidated state if they intended to remain in it for some months.

After a first clumsy attempt at sewing, Anne managed to perform the task dutifully. It would never be as good as what Constance could do, or even Aramis. The first smile he displayed since his best friend had left was when d'Artagnan teased him for his needlework. A piece of loose wood flew at the young man's head, rattling against his raised arm, and filling the room with a sharp shout of pain. In the end, they had beds to sleep on.

Anne did not wake up until afternoon the next day. She had somewhat forgotten how good it felt to have a bed, albeit rustic. She was the first to wake up, glancing at Aramis half sprawled on the floor, and their son sleeping soundly in the basket they had purchased until they may make him a proper place to sleep.

It was peaceful in the courtyard, she could only hear the neighing of horses in the stables. She seldom was by herself, but on such a lovely sunny summer day, there was not one ounce of worry on her mind. Porthos and Tréville would watch over one another when they would be reunited. She knew they would. She had seen them stand and fight many times in the past, their skills were no match for whoever might cross their path. And if it was the King...She rarely thought about him lately. Life was too busy to reflect on her previous existence.

Nonetheless, she hoped the King was fine, and that no more tragedies had befallen him. She did so while running fingers over the side of Aramis' mount, offering it barley from her open hand. Simple actions. Freedom. Finally. Oddly. How an entire life might be toppled and turned around. Would she desire to stay in Gascony? To stay in a farm? Could she grow accustomed to it? What else could she want?

Aramis was hardly limping these days, his wound a bad memory. Porthos had done a marvelous job, and so had she, taking care of him. He spent his days helping d'Artagnan, rebuilding doors and furniture. It was July and fields all around the region had to be tended to. The young man had no trouble finding employment. So did Constance. They could not let Anne by herself and they would have never dreamt of asking her to join commoners and farmers to slave away.

She spent her days helping around the house as well, cleaning, laughing, coughing because of the dust, napping, taking walks in the forest, one hand in Aramis' and her son's head in the crook of her neck. Such peace and joy that it overshadowed the idea that they might never be truly safe. There were always weapons strapped to his waist, his eyes were never devoid of caution. Anne had never been in any of the nearby villages. She did not leave the estate at all. Plenty of fresh air, sunshine and nature, it was all she required to recover from the terrible shock of her new life, and to mourn her old one. Her skin was not as pristine as it used to be. Her hair had been cut short, shorter than was proper. Such a relief though, when the breeze would caress the nape of her neck. A light reward, the acknowledgment that she may do whatever she wanted, and not answer to anyone. Nobody cared about what she did, she did not have to ask permission.

Her best comfort was her son, though. Hurting from new teeth, smiling at d'Artagnan's antics when he came back from his work in the fields. Louis had the same effect on him that he had had on Porthos. A tiny creature melting the heart of strong and big soldiers. When it was September, close to autumn and Anne's birthday drew near, babbles began to turn into attempts to say actual words. Small mind confused between choosing French and Spanish, yet some words were universal.

It warmed her heart the first time Louis called her Mama. The best birthday present she may have asked for.

His only duty so far was to protect the two persons he loved more than life itself. Aramis would have believed that away from soldiering and missions, his spirits would wither quickly. He would have been wrong. There were some dull days when it would rain and they had to stay inside. His thoughts would whirl back to his missing friends, gnawing at his heart and going over any misfortune which might prevent Porthos from joining them in the South.

Settling down had never occurred to him before. He enjoyed the thrill of danger too much. Now, on the other hand, he prayed that he would not have to relive it too soon. If he had had a choice, he would not have chosen to live in the countryside and spend hours fixing chairs and windows. Forging weapons, training youngsters, those were the tasks he would have better appreciated. Aramis had chosen to lay his life for Anne and their child, and if it meant being a farmer for the time being, then he would.

“Papa.” The first time d'Artagnan had seen Aramis speechless, freezing mid-way while pouring himself a cup of wine. His hand trembling as he set the bottle back on the table, a look of disbelief on his face. Genuine laughter from his young friend until Constance quieted him down. Aramis had not minded. One word to forget everything which was troubling him. Such a tinkle in Anne's eyes. It was the right decision. No matter what might happen to them later, he would never ever regret running away, escaping, becoming a traitor and an outlaw. Not when his son was calling him out. A new title he never thought he might claim.

Autumn brought much rain and wind, less time spent outside, more time inside, chasing after a crawling baby. An occupation that Constance and Anne deemed better than any other. Earnest laughter and swift reprimands once he attempted to climb up the stairs. The men were securing it, but Louis would never be allowed on it on his own.

Doors could be closed, windows could be shut, the kitchen was no longer empty of utensils and food. They did not have to crowd in the same room to sleep. More privacy, a better life.

No news from Paris whatsoever. In the villages, people sometimes talked about the Queen's escape, because it was a great gossip, but they never told Anne. Once or twice, Aramis or d'Artagnan travelled to bigger cities, Auch or Bayonne. They brought back warmer clothes for colder months. Books. She could spend hours reading, falling back into a dear habit.

Reading out loud to her son, to Aramis, when they were alone in their small bedroom. His head on her lap, frowning or chuckling at the romances she enjoyed immensely. Fingers in his hair, such familiarity. He was used to it with many other women. With Anne, on the other hand...A quick prayer to be thankful for luck and respite from the trouble of Court and intrigues.

Born a princess, bred to be a Queen, only fourteen when she married. Clueless, hopeful heart set to perform her duty in a perfect fashion. A life she had not chosen, yet bore with courage. Never a moment to herself, eyes always watching her, always expected to remain untouched and unobtainable. Even for her husband. They had had no say in their union, the fate of royals. Listening to the rain patter on the window, and Aramis rubbing her arm, she realized such an existence would have killed her in the prime of her youth. She would not have been able to carry on in such a boredom, without any true friends, with hateful stares, bearing sniggers and side remarks about her origins or her inability to produce an heir.

Thank God Louis was here. What would happen to France? She was not the barren one, of that she was positive. She should have remembered who was next in line to step on the throne if Louis XIII remained childless. It did not matter to her anymore.

Nights when she would be weary of reading and instead would request stories from his past. Curled up on his lap, his hair so long it brushed the side of her face and tickled her cheeks. His voice a steady lullaby, sometimes in Spanish, sometimes in French. Stories about his childhood, about his family, about the people he would never see again. Mother, father, sisters, too precious to be put in jeopardy. Better to be thought a traitor than to sentence them all to death. Cousins who would never be acquainted. Stories about being a Musketeer, missions, miscalculations, drunken escapades, tavern brawls. Stories about his brothers-in-arms. Stories about what they might do in the future.

Happy thoughts.

Stories about her years at the Spanish Court. Stories about how she learned to ride a horse, to dance. Dreams about her future children, expectations about living in France. His deep laughter once she shared the doubts and misconceptions she had had about life in Paris. All men womanisers, horrid smells, distasteful food.

“Well, I can't vouch for the entire male population but we _are_ very fond of ladies.”

“Is that so?” A frown on her face as she withdrew from him. She had learned to recognize jests, and they were so close now, how a husband and a wife should be. Every single one of their interactions was more incredible than what she had shared with the King. Not one single remorse.

“Absolutely. But only the most mesmerizing and clever ones.” A sparkle in his eyes, her hand pushing against his chest until she was trapped under his strong body, with no will to dislodge him.

There were times when she could not help but worry. Ever since she had taken an interest in Aramis in Paris, she had known how successful he was with women, how enticing and charming he appeared to them all. He never seemed bored with her, but would it last? Would he commit to one single woman for his entire life? She ought to have better faith and to trust him more. He was anything but enchanting with her, taking excellent care of their son, never displaying a suspicion that it might not be enough. She had managed to discard her old life although there were gestures and phrases which still came back too easily. Slips of the tongue, yet less and less. Aramis might manage to change as well.

November, heavy rain. D'Artagnan all but fell from the roof fixing some broken tiles. Constance nearly had a heart stroke, watching him hang on from the edge until Aramis sild to his side. Slippery tiles. The young man was lucky to only end up with a bruised wrist and a couple of broken ribs. Bed-ridden, new caretaker for Louis.

Almost his first birthday. With d'Artagnan unable to ride a horse, Anne begged to accompany Aramis on his next travel to Bordeaux. It bothered her to let her child behind even though Constance would be more than capable of watching over him. The best training experience before she became a mother herself. Aramis hesitated, Anne put up a fight. She loved the farm and the security it provided; yet she longed to see more people, to breathe the ocean, to find the perfect gift for the toddler who had already suffered tremendously.

Three days on the road, big crowds in the streets of a city she had never visited. Salt in the air, wind in her hair, hood falling, rosy cheeks. When Aramis glanced at her, she resembled nothing of the monarch who had fled months beforehand. The sun had turned her skin darker, a light brown colour.

A quiet inn by the harbour to gaze at the ships, wondering about Athos. They would never send letters, it was too dangerous. He would know it in his heart if his friends were dead. They were fine. Surely bickering to no end.

Anne was delighted to stroll the streets, buying fabric to make new clothes, finding exotic products on market stalls. Plenty of money from d'Artagnan's work as well as Constance's pies they often sold in villages near Lupiac. Aramis always protected her, shielding her from passers-by, especially soldiers striding past them.

One night in a warm room with a fire and no one to bother them. Dinner sent upstairs because even though he had agreed to take her with him, he was always on edge, terrified that they would be recognized. He had not cut his hair in months, so long that he had to tie it back. His beard was better trimmed than usual. He did not look like a Musketeer anymore.

A rumour in the common room downstairs while waiting for drinks and food. Words from merchants that the King would soon take a new wife. Gritted teeth as they made crude jokes about Anne, remembering that it would do no good to start a fight. He did not tell her. She heard it the next day while browsing for books. Two ladies in a heated conversation with the shop owner.

Her hand still on the book stand, eyes closed and deep breaths. What was her status then? She may have run away, they must still be married, as far as the Church was concerned. Did the King believe her dead? Did the Pope grant him grounds for divorce? After her treason, there must have been no hesitation. Had her husband -if he still was- given up on retrieving her and bringing her back to Paris? Aramis' warm hand on her back, a reassuring smile on his face, and she could concentrate once more. It was bound to happen.

A rich man staring at her while walking back to the inn. Eyes squinting and Aramis' blood freezing. Anne left to return to their room by herself. A swift run, a dagger to the throat in a side alley.

“Why were you staring at my wife?” Even if she never would, not officially, for all intents and purposes, it was what she was for him.

“She looks oddly familiar. I've seen her before. Get off me!”

“Where have you seen her?” The man squirmed to loosen the grip his assailant had on him. Aramis was too strong for him. He would always overpower potential enemies. Burning anger in his eyes, shaking his victim. There was a time when he would have been ashamed to attack unarmed men, to act like a rogue. When it came to Anne, the chivalrous soldier Aramis once was vanished. He was a man protecting his family at all costs.

“I don't know! I travel a lot! What is wrong with you? I will not let it pass! Do you have any idea who I am?”

“I don't care in the slightest.”

Blood drying on his trembling hands when he closed the door of their rented room and told her to pack their belongings. It may have been dark and a chilly night, they had to ride back. He was sick on the road, disgusted by his behaviour, furious tears on his cheeks, her arm around his slumped shoulders.

“He'd done nothing wrong. He was not even.....He could just have...I couldn't...”

“I apologise. I won't try to accompany you in the future.” Few words about what had happened, her stomach heaving, too, but no guilt whatsoever. There was a fierceness in her heart to stay alive, to fight with all her might. A slight nod of his head, soft fingers drying his eyes, kissing his cheeks. Tumbling in the cold grass in a warm embrace.

“It's not who I am, Ana.”

“It's fine, Aramis. I know. It's fine.”

A silent agreement never to talk about what had happened in Bordeaux. If she had to stay closeted on the estate, she would. In small villages and hamlets, it would be harmless. Farmers had seldom ever seen her face, not even on a painting. In large cities, though, she should have known better. She should have realized people traveled and some may recognize her. The mistake had been made once, it would not happen twice. It sickened her to notice how Aramis had been on the return journey. She would not inflict it on him again.

The smell of roasting chestnuts greeting them once they came back to the farm. A couple of chickens roaming in the courtyard. A valuable purchase, entertaining Louis into bouts of giggles. A better employment than providing eggs, as far as Anne was concerned.

A raucous voice in the large room they used to sleep in but which had returned to its previous use. A warm dining room. Dizzy and speechless, heart skipping some beats once Porthos turned around to look at Aramis and Anne.

“You're back!” _You're alive_.

“Are you competing to find out who can grow their hair the longest?” Porthos answered, crunching his face, engulfing his best friend in the tightest hug Aramis had received in his life.

Too stunned to say anything. Porthos did not look any different. Still his joyous self. Too many questions in Aramis' mind.

“When did you arrive?”

“Two days ago? I couldn't miss my nephew's birthday!” A wink at Anne, then such a spontaneous hug she could only laugh at his forwardness.

“What happened? Where's the Captain?”

“Sit down. It's a long story.”

Louis snuggled in Anne's arms, playing with a new wooden toy -Porthos could create marvelous objects-, small legs kicking after a while, excited. Aramis next to her, famished and eating his weight in bread, legs bouncing. A mixture of relief and worry. D'Artagnan standing up behind Constance's chair, his ribs hurting horribly. He could not sit down for long. They had already heard Porthos' tale.

Porthos looked weary, a hint of sadness on his face. Eyes sweeping each of his companions, watching out for the unavoidable reactions. He explained how he had ridden to Paris back in the summer, upset and determined. Before he had even reached Orléans, it was madness on the roads. Soldiers, Red Guards everywhere. Days hiding, traveling by night, inquiring whenever he could if people had seen someone who matched Tréville's description. Not finding him until he was close to Paris, pondering how to go in without being spotted. Help from old friends from the Court of Miracles. In the end, the other Musketeers had been released after a few weeks of confinement and questioning. They knew nothing. None would be incorporated in the infantry or in the Guard. At least they were all alive and well.

“Where's the Captain then?” Hesitation, a sip of hot wine to give himself some courage.

“He didn't want to come back in the South. He mentioned he had some ties with people in the East, I think. People he had known before joining the Regiment. It's not your fault, Aramis,” Porhtos added, seeing how troubled by this information his friend was. “He wouldn't have been happy here.” Such remorse in his voice that it was obvious he regretted the older man's decision as well. He regretted everything that Tréville had done in Paris. Receding rage and chagrin.

“When was this?”

“August perhaps?”

“Where have you been since?”

“I stayed in the Court for some time. Somehow, the prospect of riding the entire length of the country once more was not a priority.” A crooked grin, and a longing in his eyes. Memories of damp rooms, yet the only place in Paris where he felt safe, now that the Garrison was no more. The best place in the world. Flea waited. She always waited for him. She never said it, but if he had wanted to stay forever, he would have been welcome to do so. Even if Porthos felt rather protected there, it was still Paris. It could not last eternally.

“By the way, I'm returning this.” He handed the crucifix to Aramis who inspected it, satisfied to find it intact. Louis grabbed it firmly once it dangled in front of his eyes. _Papa_. A startle. Aramis would always startle at this particular word.

“Will you stay?” A shrug, reclining in his chair, stretching his arms, stretching his legs, sore muscles and an aching heart to mend.

“There's a room for me, and it's growing cold. You'd have to drag me by force to make me leave.”

“Excellent.”

Conversation about Bordeaux ensued, what cake for Louis' birthday, how strange chocolate tasted, Constance making a face when she was offered some. D'Artagnan complaining about his injury, deciding that Portho's mockery had not been missed.

A forced smile when they bid each other goodnight and Aramis clasped his shoulder, not quite believing that they were reunited yet. Aramis claiming that he felt much better now that Porthos was back and that Tréville was safe as well, wherever he was.

Someday, he might tell them the actual truth, the one eating him alive, gnawing at his stomach, making him sick every single day, clouding his mind and making it impossible for Porthos to sometimes leave his bed and carry on with his life. They would be as devastated as he was, they would blame themselves endlessly. Pointlessly. There was nothing that could have been done. Nightmares waking him up covered in sweat, thrashing against his bedcover, muffled shouts often silenced by Flea's lips, but here? He prayed it would happen less.

Dark dreams reminding him how he had never found Tréville in Paris. He did go to the Court, watching the action from the side, helplessly. Useless. Ashamed. How could he have believed the man he respected and admired like a father would do such a thing? How could he have believed that finding all the Musketeers still in jail, he would surrender to the King, leading the Red Guards on a false track to Italy, giving the Queen's earrings as proof of what he was saying, giving so many details they were easily convinced? The lives of the entire Regiment against his. Amazing reverence.

The Red Guard who had made this report to Porthos was long dead by the time he was running hopelessly in the deserted Parisian streets, mad, enraged. Nothing he could do to release his Captain. He had no desire to be rescued. Weeks with childhood friends to drink until he was so numb his grief seemed so distant, almost a fidget of his imagination. So much alcohol, so many fights to unleash his outrage.

Porthos would never understand the decision, would never come to terms with it, refused to imagine what it entitled. None of his companions would either. In a few years, he may tell them, if they had not found out by themselves. He would mourn by himself, surrounded by his family, seeking comfort in banter, jests, sparring, dueling. Even farm work sounded appealing to him now. Anything to stop thinking back on Paris. The city sickened him. Everything about it did. Flea should have come with him. She would have said no, so he never asked her.

Difficult nights, many nightmares, nobody inquiring about it in the morning. Perhaps they did not hear him. He was becoming used to covering his screams, his knuckles bitten to the bone. Warm rooms and distractions, manual work, hunting in the forest. And his brothers. Three children, Constance would often say. A house soon overrun by more.

Christmas and the entire household attending mass in a small church. Anne could accept not to show her face but this day was sacred. Aramis did not object to it. They were becoming a feature in the countryside, the quiet people living on the estate by the forest. Keeping to themselves, never looking for trouble, no debts, honest workers, amazing cooks. Nothing overly suspicious. A big family with their mind set on living a tranquil life.

Porthos lost more games of cards in Lupiac than he had ever done in Paris. He never cheated. D'Artagnan was enthusiastic every time they would go for drinks because it meant he had a chance to beat him. He often did. Often regretted it when they would duel the next day.

Spring and fields to tend to. Louis toddling after the chickens, falling head first in the tall grass, being toppled by the puppy his uncles had offered as a Christmas present. An excellent protector, the little boy's shadow.

Constance arguing that she could give birth without the help of a midwife.

“Where will you find one in such a secluded place?” she snapped one evening, d'Artagnan holding his hands up as a protection. Porthos laughing so loudly he choked on his food.

“You're not the first woman with child in the area. How do you think I was born?”

“I could help if you explained,” Anne offered, more afraid that her suggestion would be accepted than denied.

“Why did I offer my help?” she asked Aramis that April night, shuddering in his arms. It was not cold, she was scared. His lips tickling the skin of her bare shoulder, smiling.

“Because she is your friend and you are a wonderful woman.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“You'll hold her hand and wipe her brow while I'll take care of the rest.”

“Can you?” A note of disbelief in her gasp. Aramis looked offended for a second. The dog barked under their window. It hated being left in the courtyard. It was their guard, excellent defense against strangers.

 _“Shut up!”_ A boot flying out of their window, a yelp, then silence.

“Now, go and retrieve it or you will have to hop to move around tomorrow.”

Deafening screams and d'Artagnan was shoved out of the house along with Porthos and Louis. _Go for a walk, find some wood for the fire_. Aramis so authoritarian, they could not object.

A daughter. They called Marguerite. Constance would never forget the woman who had allowed her to escape Rochefort and the Palace, almost a year before. Porthos complaining that he was not used to being awoken in the middle of the night anymore. Porthos disappearing more and more on his own, leaving the couples and their offspring to themselves. The young father looking at him go to the village with the desire to follow, only to spend a few hours sleeping in peace.

Louis watching the new baby with wide eyes, babbling infinite sentences, more French than Spanish. Their native language had somehow vanished from their exchanges. They seldom discussed leaving Gascony. They had not done so in months. Anne refused to abandon Constance and the newborn she cherished as if it were her own.

Summer arrived once more. The anniversary of her escape, a faint tugging at her heart, grief of an easy life abandoned for a harder one, more rewarding days. Danger, death, treason, courage, valiance, endurance, benevolence, acceptance, parting. Soldiers turned fathers. Brothers by trade turned brothers in all but blood.

Mind turned to England, Aramis sighing at the setting sun, missing nights hunched over a bottle of wine, complaining about Red Guards or dull missions, fantasizing about delicious ladies, married women he would end up in trouble for.

Anne picking out strawberries in their small garden, giving one to Louis to eat, not even worrying that it had not been rinsed beforehand. D'Artagan reclining in the shade, the baby to his chest. Awkward hold as if afraid he might drop her. The dog pestering Constance as she set the table outside. Porthos returning from one of his escapades, humming cheerfully.

“So what's her name?”

“I've no idea who you're talking about.” A shove from his best friend as they walked back to the others, a bright grin on Porthos' face, fingers hooked to his belt, parading.

“Is it the same _lady_ as last year?”

“Who? Oh, no. Jesus, I'd forgotten that one. This one's other there.” He waved in the distance.

Eloise would never be Flea, but she was great company. He did not enjoy the lies he had to feed her about his past life, nor the fact that he could not invite her at the farm. One day he might. In a few months, if they were still close by then. He had managed to be hired by her father for this season's harvest. And for once, being a farm boy was not a hindrance, especially if such a lovely country girl were to serve him refreshment afterwards.

Porthos scooped a running boy in his arms, ruffling his hair, tickling him. A soldier like him should have been annoyed at staying idle in the countryside. After Paris, after Tréville, after losing so many precious people because of politics, intrigues and betrayals, it did not appeal to him anymore. The fear he had had the previous year, of being imposing on the two other couples, of not belonging with them, the only single one of the group; this fear was no more either.

He was on the road more than the others, winning what money he could by gambling. He heard more stories than his friends. He hardly told them anything. They knew there was a new Queen, a princess from Italy. They did not know he had killed several Red Guards coming too close to Lupiac. It was pointless to tell them.

Anne looked so content, Aramis was not the ghost he used to be last year. He had recovered from the aftermath of his actions and shattering decisions. Porthos had found his best friend again and it was worth all the lies in the world. God would forgive him in the end.

“Will we meet her one day?” Aramis asked, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“What for? I can already tell you that your hair is longer than hers.”

“Will you stop? I look spectacular!”

“What do you say, Louis, eh? What do you think of Papa's hair?” The joke was made at least once a day. The boy did not hesitate.

“Long!”

“There you are! Here.” A blackberry as a reward, purple smear on his cheek, purple teeth.

“Betrayed by my own flesh and blood. You should be ashamed, Porthos!”

“Never!” Understanding under the banter. If they could make such jokes, if they could be so open about the child's parentage, it was the result of many dreadful actions, acts which should have been despicable, but hardly sounded as such.

Silent tears in their bed, Aramis startled as he noticed her lying on her stomach, head buried in her pillow. A warm hand on her back. She was suffocating in the house, August had brought a scorching heat, no breeze, even at night she could barely breathe. A celebration in a village that they had attended, a small crowd, people talking to her, her accent almost impossible to hear. She had been pleased to notice how she could blend in. Chatter about Paris with other women they were being acquainted with. Gossips about a sister who lived in the city and had sent letters to the South.

“Do you need to talk about it?” Aramis asked softly, sitting on the bed. Head shaking. Sobs.

“There's nothing to talk about.”

“You're hurt, I understand. It's fine, Ana.”

“Not even a year. They've not been married for a year and she's already with child. What's wrong with me? We were married for years, a _decade_. More than that.”

“Ssssshhh. Nothing's wrong with you, Ana. Louis's here, isn't he?” He lied down next to her, one arm across her back, pulling her to him. He was too warm, but she did not push him away. The news of the new Queen -the woman who had stolen her place- being with child had broken her heart much more than it should have done. Could a marriage be so loveless and filled with so much reluctance that no pregnancy could come out of it, even if nothing was wrong with the husband or the wife? Was it the reason why she had not able to carry the King's children?

“Nothing is your fault. It was not meant to be, that's all. Not with him.”

“I'm glad it was with you, Aramis.” Lips seeking comfort, bodies clashing in spite of the heat.

A new heir, a new Queen, no reason to search the country for the woman who had betrayed his Majesty. Aramis comforted himself in this idea, busy with life at the farm, busier than ever now that d'Artagnan had his daughter to care for. There was a sense of penance in hard labour, a satisfaction in knowing his vocation to protect people was not lost entirely, even if he only looked after a handful of precious beings.

Going to put traps in the forest with Louis, one month shy of two years old, tripping and tumbling in the brown leaves covering the woods, crackling under their shoes. _Papa, papa, papa_.

A young lady accompanying Porthos for his second birthday. Shy, blushing, made so welcome by Constance and Anne that it reassured Porthos at once. His friends snickering and making pointed jokes.

“So who's the next one to have a baby, eh?” A pretty blush on her already rosy cheeks, hiding her face against Porthos' shoulder. A growl and a couple of legs kicked under the table.

“You are.” A whisper in Aramis' ear after Louis was put to sleep with his dog. _It's his birthday. You can allow it this time._ A bemused look in his eyes, a timid smile on her face, hands grabbing her waist, assessing her body. Flushed against him, a crushing hug, millions of I love yous in any language he could think of.

A new companion to play with the mischievous Marguerite, the terrible mix between both her parents' characters. Stubborn, playful, easy-going, happy, loud, spontaneous, determined. Louis often crying and complaining that d'Artagnan's daughter was mean to him, even though she was a year younger.

A summer baby in the middle of June, a little girl with eyes as blue as her mother's. Isabelle.

* * *

 

 

 “ _Because, if bad can sometimes come from good actions-? Where does it ever say, anywhere, that only bad can come from bad actions? Maybe sometimes – the wrong way is the right way? You can take the wrong path and it still comes out where you want to be? Or, spin it another way, sometimes you can do everything wrong and it still turns out to be right? […] As long as I am acting out of love, I feel I am doing best I know how. But you – wrapped in judgment, always regretting the past, cursing yourself, blaming yourself, asking “what if,” “what if.” “Life is cruel.” “I wish I had died instead of.” Well – think about this. What if all your actions and choices, good or bad, make no difference to God? What if the pattern is pre-set? What if our badness and mistakes are the very thing that set our fate and bring us round to good? What if, for some of us, we can't get there any other way?”_

 _The Goldfinch_ , Donna Tart

 

 


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